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POETICAL SKETCHES. 



















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:TII EDITION 




PTHBHTSEtElD BIT TMBDUK^T, CJILaVNCE & C« 
6S.ST IPA'UX.S CHITRC JHL TTA1RID , 
182 7. 



POETICAL SKETCHES. 



OTHER POEMS. 

by y 
ALARIC A. WATTS. 



ILLUSTRATED WITH ENGRAVINGS FROM DESIGNS 
BY T. STOTPAKD, R. A. AND W. NESFIE T .D 



LONDON: 
HURST, CHANCE, AND CO. 

65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD. 

MDCCCXXVIIL 



ZILLAH MADONNA WATTS 



THIS VOLUME 



IS MOST AFFECTIONATELY 



INSCRIBED. 



Thou dost tell me where to borrow 

Comfort in the midst of sorrow ; 

Mak'st the desolatest place 

To thy presence be a grace, 

And the blackest discontents 

Be thy fairest ornaments. 

Poesy ! thou sweet'st content 

That e'er Heaven to mortals lent, 

Though they as a trifle leave thee, 

Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee ; 

Though thou be to them a scorn 

That to nought but earth are born ; 

Let my life no longer be, 

Than I am in love with thee ! 

Though our wise ones call thee madness ' 

Let me never taste of gladness, 

If I love not thy maddest fits 

More than all their greatest wits. 

And though some, too, seeming holy, 

Do account thy raptures folly ; 

Thou dost teach me to condemn 

What makes knaves and fools of them ! 

WITHER. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The sale of another impression (consisting of a 
thousand copies) of this little volume will perhaps 
be received as a sufficient apology for its re-ap- 
pearance in a new form. Some corrections, and it 
is hoped amendments, have been made on the pre- 
sent occasion, and if these have been less frequent 
than they ought to have been, the omission has 
arisen, not from any contumacy on the part of the 
author, (who is far from being unconscious of the 
numerous defects of the book,) but from his con- 
viction that it is in the condition of the High- 
lander's gun, that wanted only a new stock, a new 



V1I1 ADVERTISEMENT. 

lock, and a new barrel, to make it just what its 
owner wished it to be, — a degree of improvement 
he has neither the time nor the inclination to effect. 
He must, therefore, beg his readers will do him 
the favour to bear in mind that, with the exception 
of one or two poems, the whole of the contents of 
the following pages were written at a very early 
age. 

It may be proper to add, that the delay (of 
nearly three years) which has arisen in the pub- 
lication of the present edition, has been occasioned 
by circumstances over which the author could 
have no control. 



CONTENTS. 



The Profession . . . . . .1 

The Broken Heart . . . . .10 

1 Think of Thee ! . . . . . .23 

A Sketch from Real Life ' . . . " . .28 

Ten Years Ago . . . . . .33 

The Closing Scene ..... 38 

To Octavia, the eighth Daughter of John Larking, Esq. . 43 

Chamouni ...... 48 

Remember the Past . . . . .52 

The Waking Dream ..... 59 

Years of Anguish and Gloom have gone by . . . 65 

.Etna ....... 69 

Stanzas. From the Italian . . . . .73 

To a Poetical Friend . ... . .76 

The ^Eolian Harp . . . . . .79 



CONTENTS. 



Stanzas to the Memory of W. P. Watts 

Morning ........ 

Evening ...... 

Woman. An Episode . 

An Epicedium ... ... 

Europa ....... 

Lines written beneath a Picture 

Posthumous Fame . , 

A Farewell ...... 

Stanzas, supposed to have been written in the Envelope to a 

Lock of Hair . 
Forget thee 1 — No never 
Cythna ...... 

Lines written in the ' Angel of the World' 

Autumn ...... 

STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
Music ...... 

Tis Eve on the Ocean .... 

While I upon thy Bosom lean 

A Serenade ..... 

Sacred Melody ..... 

The Home of Taliessin .... 

When shall we meet again 1 



PAGt 

82 

86 

88 

91 

97 

100 

103 

106 

109 

112 
115 
117 
119 
121 

125 
128 
131 
134 
137 
139 
142 



CONTENTS. 1U 

PAGE 

Come let us banish Sorrow .... 145 

And dost Thou love the Lyre .... 148 

My Race is almost Run . . . .152 

Yes, methinks that I could, without weeping, Resign . 154 

Retouch, Sweet Friend, Retouch the Lute . . 155 

The Pains of Memory . . . . .156 

The Soul that was Shrouded . . . .157 

What need of Years ? . . . . .159 

Consolation . . . . . .160 

SONNETS. 

The First-born . . . . . .167 

Written at Clarens . . . . .168 

To * * * * . • . . . .169 

To Sensibility . . . . . .170 

From the Portuguese of Camoens . . .172 

Written in a Church- Yard .... 173 

Written at Sea . . . ; . .174 

On a Domestic Calamity . . . . .175 

To Suspense . . . . . .176 



Mirzala. From the Arabic .... 177 

Notes ....... 181 



1 



THE PROFESSION. 



A SKETCH. 



For her the Fates, severely kind, ordain 
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain ; 
Her life, a long dead calm of fixed repose, 
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows. 

POPE. 



I. 

On Santa Croce's golden-pillared shrine, 
A thousand tapers pour their blended rays 
In one rich tide of radiance. Like a pine, 
Lifting its lofty head amid the blaze 
Of sunlit snows, stands forward to the gaze 
Of the assembled throng, the Priest supreme, 
In full pontificals. His hand he lays 
Upon a gorgeous crucifix, the theme 
Of the oracular words from his pale lips that stream, 

B 



Z THE PROFESSION. 

II. 

Upon his open brow a dignity 
That well beseems his office is enthroned ; 
And if the brightness of his coal-black eve 
Is something tamed by time, it must be owned 
It hath a chastened lustre far beyond 
The fire of youthful glances ; — and if Care, 
With lines of premature decay, hath crowned 
His thoughtful forehead, as in fervent prayei 
He bends, unfailing faith, hope, peace, are beaming 
there ! 

The chancel-portals, with a crash, unfold, 
And a long train of close-veiled nuns pour in, 
And gather round the palisades of gold 
That gird that glorious shriving-place for sin. 
The stately Abbess enters : — then begin 
Sweet far-off voices on the ear to steal 
With dim > delicious melodies, that win 
Their way to the deep heart, — till bursts the swell 
From organ, harp, voice, lute, in one magnificent peal. 



THE PROFESSION. 8 

IV. 

The chaunt hath ended; — and throughout the throng 
Heart-hushing silence reigns, and every brow 
Is raised in keen expectancy. — Ere long, 
Once more the Pontiff at the shrine doth bow 
Before the golden crucifix ; and now 
Calls on the fated victim. — She attends 
The awful summons, and with footstep slow 
Draws near, — the altar's marble stair ascends, — 
And on the velvet pall, with knee submissive, bends, 
v. 
Then breathes the man of God, in eloquent strain, 
The pious exhortation ; — he dilates 
Upon the wild varieties of pain 
Which, in each labyrinth of life, awaits 
1 The world's tired denizen ;' — portrays their fates 
Whom Pleasure 'witches with her syren charms ; 
And promises to her who dedicates 
Her youth to God, — from Passion's vain alarms 
A shield, and sure repose in mild Religion's arms ! 

B2 



4 THE PROFESSION. 

VI. 

All hearts are stirred,— but chiefly hers who kneels 
In silent homage there : she lifts her face 
To Heaven, but still her milk-white veil conceals 
Its features from the view. Her form of grace, 
Through its dim, shadowy foldings you may trace, 
Fair as those curves of beauty in the skies 
Which speak of Hope when storms are near, and chase 
The clouds of dark despondency. All eyes 
Are fixed upon her, now, in pity or surprise : 

VII. 

For, hark ! In measured tones, the convent-bell 
Booms heavily on the ear. With stooping brow — 
As mindful of the duty its deep knell 
Proclaims, — and voice, sweet as the musical flow 
Of desert waters, she repeats the vow 
That shuts her from the world. In accents mild, 
The father questions, if the words that now 
Are registered on high, are unbeguiled 
By circumstance or wish, unstable, vain, or wild ? 



THE PROFESSION. 5 

VIII. 

She answers him ' they are.' — Tis well, he cries, 
And from the altar takes a golden ring, 
And, gently bidding the young vestal rise, 
'Tis fixed upon her finger. — Then they fling 
The snow-white veil aside ; but ere they bring 
The last black ensign of the awful rite, 
In shroudless beauty stands that lovely thing, — 
A delicate star soft beaming on the sight, 
Like Hesper when he breaks from curtaining clouds of 
night. 

IX. 

O'er her white brow her wandering hair descends 
In rich unbraided rings ; — a coronal 
Of lilies, wreathed amid each cluster, lends 
An added grace : and, as at evening's fall 
Day struggles with th' annihilating pall 
That darkness would shed o'er it, so the gleam 
Of her transparent forehead shines through all 
The chestnut curls that shadow it : — so stream 
With tremulous light the rays that from her deep eyes 
beam. 



6 THE PROFESSION. 

X. 

Hers is that nameless loveliness that sinks 
On the beholder's heart ; and if he seeks, 
Whilst his full glance her blaze of beauty drinks, 
To know where lurks the charm which thus bespeak* 
His passionate admiration ; — if in cheeks 
Of rose — or ruby lips — or violet eyes — 
It is in vain ! — Not in the separate streaks 
Of that rich bow of gathered beauty lies 
The spell of power, but in its full, united dyes. 

XI. 

She looks around : — upon her delicate lips 
A smile of melancholy sweetness plays ; 
But soon a passing thought, in dark eclipse, 
Hath veiled it from the view ; — and now they raise 
Once more to Heaven the pealing notes of praise : 
Her eye grows brighter ; — on her cheek a flush 
Of deeper crimson mantles, and her gaze 
With holy zeal upturns, as the full rush 
Of the loud organ's tones grows gathering gush on 
gush. 



THE PROFESSION. 7 

XII. 

And now she joins the choir, whose voices swell, 
Swell and subside, then rise, and sink again, 
Like ocean's billows when the winds rebel, 
And surge on surge prevails. Sudden the strain 
Hath ceased ; as when upon the watery plain 
The oil of peace is poured, and the waves glide 
Untroubled on their way. I list in vain ! 
Hushed is, at length, that wild and witching tide, 
And organ, harp, voice, lute, have into silence died. 

XIII. 

The sable veil is brought, — the prayer is said ; 
The silken tress and lily wreath removed ; 
And sighs are heaved, and silent tears are shed 
By friends around, so loving and beloved. 
Ah ! who could view this last sad rite unmoved ! — 
Youth, beauty, virtue, in their earliest prime, 
Crossing the threshold of a home unproved ; 
Where bigot forms are hallowed but by time, 
And filial duty ends, and love becomes a crime ! 



O THE PROFESSION. 

XIV. 

Yet she is firm, and with unfailing voice 

Pours forth the final hymn ; and it would seem, 

Taught by some secret instinct to rejoice 

That she hath scaped the worldling's chequered 

dream. 
Religion, now, must be the only theme 
On which her heart may dwell. Life's darkest ills 
Can ne'er again disturb the peaceful stream 
Of her sweet though ts,delayed Hope's withering chills, 

Ambition's glittering gauds, nor Passion's thousand 
thrills, 

xv. 
Wake discord on her mind's melodious lyre, 
The convent's portal passed. Perchance her heart 
Hath been too fiercely chastened in the fire 
Of kne's deep phantasies, — until the smart 
Bade her all bleeding from the strife depart, 
And seek nepenthe in a fate like this. 
What man el then, if no big tear-drops start ; 
If schooled in sorrow thus she bends submiss : 

Since whatsoe'er her doom, to that it must be bliss. 



THE PROFESSION. 9 

XVI. 

But see ! the altar is deserted now ; 
The crowd pours out from Santa Croce's walls. 
Behind the gazing throng, with thoughtful brow, 
I linger yet amid the flower-decked stalls, 
Deep musing on the past : — the last foot-falls 
Are faintly echoing o'er the marble floor ; 
Yet, still, some spell my conscious heart enthralls; — 
At length I slowly gain the closing door, 
And bid the scene farewell, — now and for evermore ! 



THE BROKEN HEART. 



A SKETCH. 



O melancholy Love ! amidst thy fears, 
Thy darkness, thy despair, there runs a vein 

Of pleasure, like a smile 'midst many tears.— 
The pride of sorrow that will not complain,— 

The exultation that in after-years 
The loved one will discover— and in vain, 

How much the heart silently in its cell 

Did suffer till it broke, yet nothing tell ? 

BARRY CORNWALL. 



I he hand of Death upon his brow had stamped 
Its never-changing impress ; — yet his cheek 
Had lost its wonted paleness, and appeared — 
As if in mockery of the hues of health — 



THE BROKEN HEART. 11 

Tinged with a crimson flush, which came and went, 
Like the red streaks of summer's evening sky, 
When Phoebus floats upon the western wave ; 
And from the depths of his soul-searching eyes, 
Glances, of more than mortal brightness, beamed 
On those around him, — till they quailed in fear 
From his so ardent gaze. Sadness had sunk 
Into his inmost soul, though none knew why, 
And few might guess the cause. Some deemed the 

grave 
Had terrors for him ; but, though he had need 
(Like other earth-born creatures) of the grace 
From Heaven to man accorded, no foul crime 
Hung on his spirit's pinions ; — and if grief, 
Intensest suffering, those wild woes which wring 
The human heart to breaking, may atone 
For youthful follies, — then, the fear of death 
Wrought not the gloom that clouded his young brow. 

But there were other feelings deeply shrined 
Within his heart of heart; — thoughts he had nursed, 



12 THE BROKEN HEART. 

Through years, with fond inquietude, and hopes 
Cherished in passionate silentness ; — their source, 
Love, — fadeless and unquenchable. Long time, 
He strove, by mixing with the empty crowd, 
In bowers of heartless revelry, to break 
The charm that spelled his bosom ; for he feared 
The gentle one he prized, might ne'er be his. 
Was it the Demon of Fatality 
That whispered this dark omen in his ear ? 
It might, or might not be ; yet still he wove 
Her name with his rude minstrelsy, and poured 
Full many a tender strain from his wild lyre, 
She heeded not — perchance she never heard ! 

in. 
Was he beloved again ? — This, who may tell ! 
'Tis said, a strange and wayward chance first threw 
The youth and maid together : she had leaned 
Upon his arm, and listened to his lays 
With seeming gladness, and had often praised 
The earliest wreath of song his muse had twined ; 



THE BROKEN HEART. 13 

And words of gentle import, on the soul 

Of the young poet, waked a feeling sweet 

He knew not to define ; — they fell like dew 

Upon the thirsting flowerets of his heart, 

Giving them strength and freshness ; for, till then, 

The voice of soothing kindness ne'er had shed 

Its rich, melodious music on his ear ! 

IV. 

The minstrel loved, but never told the maid 

His deep devotedness ; — for he was one 

On whom the smiles of Fortune seldom dwelt ; 

And though a Croesus in his heart, had few 

Of what the world calls riches ; so he quelled, 

Or strove to quell, the tumult in his breast, 

And left his gentle Deity, to seek, 

Not other idols, but forgetfulness ! 

The maiden knew not of his love, unless 

His passionate glance at parting, when he clasped 

Her hand in token of farewell, revealed 

The tale his lips had uttered not. Howbeit, 



14. THE BROKEN HEART. 

He was not long remembered ; for when time, 
Whose days were years, had passed, and fate again 
Led him to gaze a moment on the face 
Of her he loved so well, her eye betrayed 
No beam of kind acknowledgment, but turned 
Hurriedly from his. He had not asked for love ; 
But, ah ! how little had he looked for scorn ! 

v. 
He bent him then, in silence, on his way, 
To where the Alpine monarch, crowned with snows, — 
The eminent Montblanc — heaves into Heaven 
Its pure and stainless pinnacle. Amid 
Nature's stupendous scenes the minstrel roved, 
And half forgot his sorrows. He would climb 
The lofty Jura, and from thence look down 
Upon the world beneath him, till deep thoughts, 
Passions and feelings, crowded on his mind 
In swift and numberless succession ; but 
The first, the last, the sweetest, and the best, 
Was love, though wild and hopeless! He would dwell 



THE BROKEN HEART. J 5 

Intensely on the past, and oft evoke 
Bright shades of visionary bliss from out 
The inmost depths of his day-dreaming soul ; P 
Till Reason, with her flaming sword, sprang up 
And drove him from his Paradise of thought. 

vi. 
Moons rolled away ; yet still it was his choice 
To make the wilderness his home, and wander 
'Mid Nature's giant offspring. When the sun 
Shed its retiring beams of crimson on 
The glittering snows that shroud their searchless 

heights, 
In breathless admiration, would he mark 
The last rich halo sinking ; — and when day 
Had left the world to darkness, would return 
Home to his low-roofed dwelling at the foot 
Of frowning Jura, — silently to muse 
On all the wild vicissitudes of life ! 

This might not long endure ; back to man's haunts 
Once more the minstrel, with unwilling feet, 



16 THE BROKEN HEART. 

Wended ;— for there were duties, unfulfilled, 

The world professed to claim from him, and he 

Was not disposed to disavow, although 

They had no charms for him. Again he sought 

The busy mart, and mingled with the throng, — 

Was flattered, cheated, and caressed ; — now basked 

Awhile in Fortune's sunshine, — and now mourned 

His little, lessened by the wiles of those 

Who prey upon credulity ; and this 

Because he had not learned to hate the world, 

Nor deem men villains, till he found them such ? 

vii. 
But heavier woes awaited him : the seeds 
Of sickness, which Misfortune's hand had sown, 
Began to germinate. His spirit pined 
In voiceless anguish, for he scorned complaint ; 
And whilst his lips were wreathed into a smile, 
The worm of death was preying on his heart. 
Kinless, and almost friendless, was he left 
To sink into the grave. No anxious eye 






THE BROKEN HEART. 17 

To gaze upon his face, and soothe his pain 
With looks of tenderness. And there was Hope 
In wild contention with Despair, within 
The cell of his dark bosom ; — and they strove 
Which might obtain the mastery, till a sweet 
And calm-browed angel, with her lamp of light, 
Religion, scared the ravening fiend away ! 
Then were the minstrel's dreams all gentleness, 
And he could bear to think on years gone by, 
And those yet hidden in the womb of time ! 

VIII. 

Still there was one regret, one deep regret, 

Which haunted his young spirit ; — 'twas that he, 

The unowned breathings of whose lyre had wrought 

Favour with those who knew him not, should speed 

To his eternal home, nor leave behind 

A wreath of sweet remembrance for his name ; — 

And so he garlanded the wilding flowers 

His youthful muse had gathered from the mount 

Of time-hallowed Aonia, and deemed, 

c 



18 THE BROKEN HEART. 

Most fondly deemed, his chaplet would find grace 

(Even for the sake of him who culled its blooms> 

With one sweet breast at least ; since pride might now 

No longer interpose its chilling chain 

Between him and the load-star of his love ! 

It was an idle thought : — those simple strains 

(The only incense he could offer then) 

Which he had breathed for her in earlier years, 

Had perished from her memory ; and even 

His name was unremembered now, who never 

Had parted with a tender thought of her ! 

TX. 

Such was to be. — They said her vows were given 

To one of Fortune's favorites, and one 

Of whom the world and its reports spake fair ; 

Then what had she to do with thoughts of him, 

Whose only wealth was of the mind ; — whose rank 

Was slight, — unless nobility of soul 

May cope with blazoned 'scutcheons ! It was meet 

That he should be forgotten— if he e'er 



THE BROKEN HEART. 19 

Had been remembered, 'till the grave had closed 
Between him and mankind, — and then his name 
Might ask the tribute of a tear, nor wrong 
Those who possessed a title to her smiles ! 

x. 
Did he reproach her even in thought 1 — Ah, no ! 
She had not wronged him ; — she had vowed no truth 
To him ; and he had never sought to gain 
Her pity or her love ; — nor even revealed 
Aught that he felt for her ; unless, indeed, 
In years long past, when (though so brief the time 
Relentless Fate allotted for such bliss) 
She sometimes leaned upon his arm, and held 
Sweet converse on the mighty ones of old, 
(The immortal poets of their native land) 
With him — that wild enthusiast, — then the fire 
She kindled in his soul would burst to light, 
And each deep-rooted sentiment shine out 
In glances, from his passion-darting eyes ! 
Yet, it may be, she marked them not, — or deemed 

c 2 



20 THE BROKEN HEART. 

The mention of their fadeless names who were 

As stars of his idolatry, called up 

The deep suffusion of his cheek, and lit 

His eye with momentary brightness. Once, 

Ay once, he fancied that the maiden gazed 

As if she guessed the secret of his soul, 

And pitied,— almost loved him ; — and he clasped 

The hand that she withheld not, — but was silent ! — 

Why was he mute at such an hour as this ? 

Ye to whom feeling is beyond a name, 

Perchance, can answer for him ! Had the wealth 

Of ' Ormus or of Ind' been his, his love 

Had surely found a tongue ; but as it was, 

Honour — it may be pride too — made him voiceless ! 

XI. 

They parted, — never more to meet, as once 
They had been wont to meet ; — yet glorious Hope, 
That morning-star of Love, put forth its beams — 
Its beautiful beams of promise, — and the youth, 
Spite of the clouds that circled it, believed 






THE BROKEN HEART. 21 

The sun of Fortune, the deep noon of bliss, 
And the calm evening of subdued delight, 
Would follow their bright harbinger. But, ah ! 
How many a day of turbulence and gloom 
Is ushered by the sweet and peaceful rays 
Of fair Aurora's planet ! So it was 
Even with the minstrel's Lucifer ; for soon 
It shrouded its bright beams, and left his soul 
To a dark day of ceaseless cloud and storm. 

XII. 

They parted ; — and, since then, his bark hath ridden 
The rough and roaring waters of the world ; 
Now whelmed beneath the billows of Despair, 
Striving with passion's whirlwind ; and now dashed 
With furious violence upon the rocks 
Hate, and Oppression, and blind Chance have reared 
Amid the waves of life's tumultuous sea. 
The tempest hath subsided ; and that bark 
Sailless, not rudderless, with tremulous heave 
(As mindful of the ills it hath sustained) 



22 THE BROKEN HEART. 

Now drifts before a mild and favouring gale 

To its deep haven of repose — the grave ! 

Master of mortal bosoms, Love ! — O, Love ! 

Thou art the essence of the universe ! 

Soul of the visible world ! and canst create 

Hope, joy, pain, passion, madness, or despair, 

As suiteth thy high will ! To some thou bringest 

A balm, a lenitive for every wound 

The unkind world inflicts on them ; to others 

Thy breath but breathes destruction, and thy smile 

Scathes like the lightning ! — Now a star of peace, 

Heralding sweet evening to our stormy day ; 

And now a meteor, with far-scattering fire, 

Shedding red ruin on our flowers of life ! — 

In all— 

Whether arrayed in hues of deep repose, 

Or armed with burning vengeance to consume 

Our yielding hearts, —alike omnipotent! 



I THINK OF THEE ! 



In alto poggio, in vail' im' e palustre : 
Libero Spirito, od a' suoi membri afflisso : 
Pommi con Fama oscura 6 non illustre : 
Sara qual fui ; vivro com' io son visso 
Continuando il mio sospir trilustre. 

PETRARCA. 



I think of thee, I think of thee, 
And all that thou hast borne for me ; — 
In hours of gloom, or heartless glee, 
I think of thee — I think of thee ! 

ii. 
When fiercest rage the storms of Fate, 
And all around is desolate, 
I pour on life's tempestuous sea 
The oil of peace, with thoughts of thee ! 



24 I THINK OF THEE ! 

III. 

When Fortune frowns, and Hope deceives me, 
And summer-friendship veers and leaves me, 
A Timon, from the world I flee — 
My wreck of wealth — sweet dreams of thee ! 

iv. 
Or if I join the careless crowd, 
Where laughter peals, and mirth grows loud, 
Even in my hours of revelry 
I think of thee, — I think of thee ! 

v. 
I think of thee, — I think and sigh 
O'er blighted years and bliss gone by ; — 
And mourn the stern, severe decree 
That hath but left me — thoughts of thee ! 

VI. 

In youth's gay hours, 'mid Pleasure's bowers, 
When all was sunshine, mirth, and flowers, 
We met — I bent the adoring knee, 
And told a tender tale to thee ! 



I THINK OF THEE ! 25 

VII. 

'Twas summer's eve, — the Heavens above — 
Earth, ocean, air, were full of love ; — 
Nature around kept jubilee, 
When first I breathed that tale to thee ! 

VIII. 

The crystal arch that hung on high 
Was blue as thy delicious eye ; — 
The stirless shore, and sleeping sea, 
Seemed emblems of repose and thee ! 

IX. 

I spoke of hope ; — I spoke of fear ; — 
Thy answer was a blush and tear ; — 
But this was eloquence to me, 
And more than I had asked of thee ! 

x. 
I looked into thy dewy eye, 
And echoed thy half stifled sigh, — 
I clasped thy hand, and vowed to be 
The soul of love and truth to thee ! 



26 I THINK OF THEE ! 

XI. 

That scene and hour have past ; yet still 
Remains a deep, impassioned thrill, — 
A sun-set glow on memory, 
Which kindles at a thought of thee ! 

XII. 

We loved : — how wildly, and how well, 
'Twere worse than idle now to tell ! 
From love and life alike thou rt free, 
And /—am left — to think of thee ! 

XIII. 

Though years — long years — have darkly sped 
Since thou wert numbered with the dead, 
In fancy oft thy form I see, — 
In dreams, at least, I'm still with thee ! 

XIV. 

Thy beauty — helplessness — and youth, — 
Thy hapless fate — untiring truth, — 
Are spells that often touch the key 
Of sweet but mournful thoughts of thee ! 



I THTNK OF THEE ! 27 

XV. 

The bitter frown of friends estranged ; 
The chilling straits of fortunes changed ; 
All this, and more, thou'st borne for me : 
Then how can I be false to thee ? 

XVI. 

I never will. — I'll think of thee 

Till fades the power of memory ! — 

In weal or woe, — in gloom or glee, — 

I'll think of thee ! — I'll think of thee ! 



A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. 



What now, to her, is all the world esteems! 
She is awake, and cares not for its dreams ; 
But moves, while yet on earth, as one above 
Its hopes and fears— its loathing and its love. 

CBABBE. 



^Tis said she once was beautiful ;— and still — 
For 'tis not years that can have wrought her ill, — 
Deep rays of loveliness around her form 
Beam, as the rainbow that succeeds the storm, 
Brightens a glorious ruin. In her face, 
Though something touched by sorrow, you may trace 
The all she was, when first in life's young spring, 
Like the gay bee-bird on delighted wing, 



A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. 29 

She stooped to cull the honey from each flower 
That bares its breast in joy's luxuriant bower ! 
O'er her pure forehead, pale as moonlit snow, 
Her ebon locks are parted, — and her brow 
Stands forth like morning from the shades of night, 
Serene, though clouds hang over it. The bright 
And searching glance of her Ithuriel eye, 
Might even the sternest hypocrite defy 
To meet it unappalled ; — 'twould almost seem 
As though, epitomized in one deep beam, 
Her full collected soul upon the heart, 
Whate'er its mask, she strove at once to dart : 
And few may brave the talisman that's hid 
'Neath the dark fringes of her drooping lid. 

Patient in suffering, she has learned the art 
To bleed in silence and conceal the smart ; 
And thence, though quick of feeling, hath been deemed 
Almost as cold and loveless as she seemed : 



30 A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. 

Because to fools she never would reveal 

Wounds they would probe — without the power to heal . 

No, — whatsoe'er the visions that disturb 

The fountain of her thoughts, she knows to curb 

Each outward sign of sorrow, and suppress — 

Even to a sigh — all tokens of distress. 

Yet some, perhaps, with keener vision than 

The crowd, that pass her by unnoted, can, 

Through well-dissembled smiles, at times, discern 

A settled anguish that would seem to bum 

The very brain it feeds upon ; and when 

This mood of pain is on her, then, oh ! then 

A more than wonted paleness of the cheek, — 

And, it may be, a flitting hectic streak,— 

A tremulous motion of the lip 01 eye, — 

Are all that anxious friendship may descry. 

Reserve and womanly pride are in her look, 
Though tempered into meekness. She can brook 



A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. 31 

Unkindness and neglect from those she loves, 
Because she feels it undeserved ; which proves, 
That firm and conscious rectitude hath power 
To blunt Fate's darts in sorrow's, darkest hour. 
Ay unprovoked injustice she can bear 
Without a sigh, — almost without a tear, 
Save such as hearts internally will weep, 
And they ne'er rise the burning lids to steep ; 
But to those petty wrongs which half defy 
Human forbearance, she can make reply 
With a proud lip and a contemptuous eye. 

There is a speaking sadness in her air, 
A hue of languor o'er her features fair, 
Born of no common grief; as though Despair 
Had wrestled with her spirit — been o'erthrown, — 
And these the trophies of the strife alone. 
A resignation of the will, a calm 
Derived from pure religion (that sweet balm 



32 A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. 

For wounded breasts) is seated on her brow, 
And ever to the tempest bends she now, 
Even as a drooping lily, which the wind 
Sways as it lists. The sweet affections bind 
Her sympathies to earth ; her peaceful soul 
Has long aspired to that immortal goal, 
Where pain and anguish cease to be our lot, 
And the world's cares and frailties are forgot ! 



TEN YEARS AGO. 



That time is past, 
And all its aching joys are now no more, 
And all its dizzy raptures ! Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur. Other gifts 
Have followed, for such loss, I would believe. 
Abundant recompense. 

WORDSWORTH 



Ten years ago, ten years ago, 

Life was to us a fairy scene ; 
And the keen blasts of worldly woe 

Had sered not then its pathway green : 
Youth and its thousand dreams were ours, 

Feelings we ne'er can know again, — 
Unwithered hopes, unwasted powers, 

And frames unworn by mortal pain. 
Such was the bright and genial flow 
Of life with us — ten years ago { 



34 TEN YEARS AGO. 

II. 

Time has not blanched a single hair 

That clusters round thy forehead now ; 
Nor hath the cankering touch of Care 

Left even one furrow on thy brow. 
Thine eyes are bright as when we met, 

In love's deep truth, in earlier years ; 
Thy rosy cheek is blooming yet, 

Though sometimes stained by secret tears ; — 
But where, oh where's the spirit's glow 
That shone through all — ten years ago ? 

in. 
I, too, am changed — I scarce know why ; 

Can feel each flagging pulse decay, 
And youth, and health, and visions high, 

Melt like a wreath of snow away ! 
Time cannot sure have wrought the ill ; 

Though worn in this world's sickening strife — 
In soul and form, — I linger still 

In the first summer month of life ; 






TEN YEARS AGO. 35 

Yet journey on my path below, — 
Oh ! how unlike — ten years ago ! 

IV. 

But, look not thus : — I would not give 

The wreck of hopes that thou' must share, 
To bid those joyous hours revive, 

When all around me seemed so fair. 
We've wandered on in sunny weather, 

When winds were low and flowers in bloom; 
And hand in hand have kept together, 

And still will keep, 'mid storm and gloom ; 
Endeared by ties we could not know, 
When life was young — ten years ago ! 

v. 
Has Fortune frowned ? — Her frowns were vain ; 

For hearts like ours she could not chill ! 
Have friends proved false? — Their love might 
wane, — 

But ours grew fonder, firmer still ! 

D2 



36 TEN YEARS AGO. 

Twin barks on this world's changing wave, 
Stedfast in calms — in tempests tried, — 

In concert still our fate we '11 brave, — 
Together cleave life's fitful tide ; 

Nor mourn, whatever winds may blow, 

Youth's first wild dreams — ten years ago ! 

VI. 

Have we not knelt beside his bed, 

And watched our first-born blossom die ? 
Hoped, till the shade of hope had fled, 

Then wept till feeling's fount was dry ? 
Was it not sweet in that dark hour 

To think, 'mid mutual tears and sighs, 
Our bud had left its earthly bower, 

And burst to bloom in Paradise ? 
What, to the thought that soothed that woe, 
Were heartless joys — ten years ago ? 









TEN YEARS AGO. 37 

VII. 

Yes, it is sweet, when Heaven is bright, 

To share its sunny beams with thee ! 
Yet sweeter far, 'mid clouds and blight, 

To have thee near to weep with me. 
But dry those tears, — though something changed 

From what we were in earlier youth, — 
Time, that hath hopes and friends estranged, 

Hath left us love in all its truth ; — 
Sweet feelings we would not forego, 
For life's best joys — ten years ago ! 

February, 1924. 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 



A SKETCH. 



Who can bring healing to her heart's despair, 
Her whole rich sum of happiness lies there ! 

CROLY. 



Pale is his cheek with deep and passionate thought, 
Save when a feverish hectic crosses it, 
Flooding its lines with crimson. From beneath 
The long dark fringes of its drooping lid 
Flash forth the fitful glances of his eye, 
Like star-beams from the bosom of the night. 
Above his high and ample forehead, float 
The gloomy folds of his wild-waving hair, 
Even as the clouds that crown a lofty hill 
With sterner grandeur. On his quivering lid 
The swelling brow weighs heavily, as though 
Bursting with thoughts for utterance too intense ! 



THE CLOSING SCENE. di 

His lip is curled with something too of pride, 
Which ill beseems the meekness and repose 
That should, at such an hour, within his heart, 
Spite of this world's vexations, be enshrined. 
Tis not disdain, for only those he loves 
Are 'round him now, with mild low-whispered words 
Tendering heart-offered kindnesses, — and watching, 
With fond inquietude, the couch whereon 
His slender form reclines. What can it be ? — 
Perchance some rooted memory of the past ; — 
Some dream of injured pride that fain would wreak 
Its force on dumb expression ; — some fierce wrong 
Which his young soul hath suffered unappeased. 
But thoughts like these must be dispelled before 
That soul can plume its wings to part in peace. 

And now his gaze is lifted to the face 
Of one who bends above him with an air 
Of sweet solicitude, and props his head, 
Even with her own white arm, until at length 



40 THE CLOSING SCENE. 

The sliding pillow is replaced ; but, ere 

His cheek may press on its uneven down, 

Her delicate hand hath smoothed it. What a theme 

For those who love to weave the pictured spell, 

And fix the shadows that would else depart 

From all but memory, on the tablets fair 

Of the divine Euterpe ! 

Her blue eye*, 
With tenderness, grow darker as they dwell 
Upon the wreck before her ; — and a tear, 
Collected 'neath their fringes, large and bright, 
Falls on the snow of her high-heaving breast. 

Too well divineth he the voiceless grief 
Which breathes in each unbidden sigh, and beams 
From forth her humid eyes ? Too well he knows 
That love and keen anxiety for him 
Have paled the ruby of her lip, and chased 
The roses dye from her so beautiful cheek. 
His quivering lips unclose, as if to pour 
The fond acknowledgments of grateful love 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 41 

On that sweet mourner's ear ; but his parched tongue 

Denies its office. Gathering then each ray, 

Each vivid ray of feeling from his heart, 

Into a single focus — in his eye 

His inmost soul is glassed, and love — deep love, 

And grateful admiration, beam confessed 

In one wild passionate glance ! 

The gentle girl 
Basks her awhile in that full blaze — then stoops, 
And hiding her pale forehead in his bosom, 
Murmurs sounds inarticulate, but sweet 
As the low wail of summer's evening breath 
Amid the wind-harp's strings. Then bursts the tide 
Of woe that may no longer be repressed, 
Stirred from its source by chill, hope-withering fears, 
And from her charged lids big drops descend 
In quick succession. With more tremulous hand 
Clasps she the sufferer's neck. 

Upon his brow 
The damps of death are settling, — and his eyes 
Grow fixed and meaningless. She marks the change 



42 THE CLOSING SCENE. 

With desperate earnestness ; and staying even 

Her breath, that nothing may disturb the hush, 

Lays her wan cheek still closer to his heart, 

And listens, as its varying pulses move, — 

Haply to catch a sound betokening life. 

It beats — again — another — and another, — 

And, now, hath ceased for ever ! What a shriek- 

A shrill and soul-appalling shriek peals forth, 

Now the full truth hath rushed upon her brain I 

Who may describe the rigidness of frame, 

The stony look of auguish and despair, 

With which she bends o'er that uumoving clay 1 

Not I, — my pencil hath no further power : 

So here I'll drop the Grecian painter's veil ! 






4 




. TTtjoxl Ml 



The damps of 

. I 
YFifli.de s] 
Her breathythat nothing -niay disturb The tush, 

■ 

Haply to catch a s 



! 
' -z X HUTtS I CHATSTCE A 09 
6 5 , S * PAUXS CHTTRCH. Y.ABJD . 



TO OCTAVIA, 

THE EIGHTH DAUGHTER OF J. LARKING, ESQ. 

Ah ! mayst thou ever be what now thou art, 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring ! 

LORD BYRON. 



Full many a gloomy month hath past, 

On nagging wing, regardless by, 
Unmarked by aught, save grief, since last 

I gazed upon thy bright blue eye, 
And bade my Lyre pour forth for thee 
Its strains of wildest minstrelsy ? 
For all my joys are withered now, 

The hopes, I most relied on, thwarted, 
And sorrow hath o'erspread my brow 

With many a shade since last we parted : 
Yet, 'mid that murkiness of lot, 
Young Peri, thou art unforgot 



44 TO OCTAVIA. 

II. 

There are who love to trace the smile 

That dimples upon childhood's cheek, 
And hear from lips devoid of guile, 

The dictates of the bosom break ; — 
Ah ! who of such could look on thee 
Without a wish to rival me ! 
None ; — his must be a stubborn heart, 

And strange to every softer feeling, 
Who from thy glance could bear to part 

Cold and unmoved — without revealing 
Some portion of the fond regret 
Which dimmed my eye when last we met ! 

in. 
Sweet bud of Beauty !— Mid the thrill — 

The anguished thrill of hope delayed, — 
Peril — and pain — and every ill 

That can the breast of man invade, — 
No tender thought of thine and thee 
Hath faded from my memory ; 



TO OCTAVIA. 45 

But I have dwelt on each dear form, 

'Till woe, awhile, gave place to gladness, 

And that remembrance seemed to charm, 
Almost to peace, my bosom's sadness ; — 

And now, again, I breathe a lay 

To hail thee on thy natal day ! 

TV. 

O ! might the fondest prayers prevail 

For blessings on thy future years ; 
Or innocence, like thine, avail 

To save thee from affliction's tears ; 
Each moment of thy life should bring 
Some new delight upon its wing ! 
And the wild sparkle of thine eye — 

Thy guilelessness of soul revealing — 
Beam ever thus, as beauteously, 

Undimmed — save by those tears of feeling — 
Those soft, luxuriant drops which flow, 
In pity, for another's woe ! 



46 TO OCTAVIA. 

V. 

But vain the wish ! — It may not be ! 

Could prayers avert misfortune's blight, 
Or hearts, from sinful passion free, 

Here hope for unalloyed delight, 
Then, those who guard thy opening bloom 
Had never known one hour of gloom. 
No : — if the chastening stroke of Fate 

On guilty heads alone descended, 
Sure they would ne'er have felt its weight. 

In whose pure bosoms, sweetly blended, 
Life's dearest social virtues move, 
In one bright, endless chain of love ! 

VI. 

Then since upon this earth, joy's beams 
Are fading — frail, and few in number, 

And melt — like the light-woven dreams 
That steal upon the mourner's slumber, — 

Sweet one ! I'll wish thee strength to bear 

The ills that Heaven may bid thee share ; 



TO OCTAVIA. 47 

And when thine infancy hath fled, 

And Time with Woman's zone hath bound thee, 
If, in the path thou'rt doomed to tread, 

The thorns of sorrow lurk, and wound thee, 
Be thine that exquisite relief 
Which blossoms 'mid the springs of grief 1 

VII. 

And like the many -tinted Bow, 

Which smiles the showery clouds away, 
May hope — Grief's Iris here below — 

Attend, and soothe thee on thy way, 
Till full of years — thy cares at rest — 
Thou seek'st the mansions of the blest ! — 
Young Sister of a mortal Nine, 

Farewell ! — Perchance a long farewell ! 
Though woes unnumbered yet be mine, — 

Woes, Hope may vainly strive to quell, — 
I'll half unteach my soul to pine, 
So there be bliss for thee and thine ! 
1817. 



CHAMOUNI. 



A SKETCH ON THE SPOT. 



The lips that may forget God in the crowd, 
Cannot forget him here, where he has built 
For his own glory in the wilderness 

WORDSWORTH 



I. 
I is Night ; — and Silence with unmoving wings 
Broods o'er the sleeping waters ; — not a sound 
Breaks its most breathless hush. The sweet moon 

flings 
Her pallid lustre on the hills around, 
Turning the snows and ices that have crowned — 
Since Chaos reigned — each vast untrodden height, 
To beryl, pearl, and silver; — whilst, profound, 
In the still, waveless lake, reflected bright, 
And, girt with arrowy rays, rests her full orb of light. 



CHAMOUNI. 49 

IT. 

Th' eternal mountains momently are peering 
Through the blue clouds that mantle them ; — on high, 
Their glittering crests majestically rearing, 
More like to children of the infinite sky, 
Than of the daedal earth. — Triumphantly, 
Prince of the whirlwind ! — Monarch of the scene ! — 
Mightiest where all are mighty ! — from the eye 
Of mortal man half hidden by the screen 
Of mists that moat his base from Arve's dark, deep 

ravine. 

in. 
Stands the magnificent Montblanc ! His brow 
Scarred with ten thousand thunders ; — most sublime, 
Even as though risen from the world below 
To mark the progress of Decay : by clime, 
Storm, blight, fire, earthquake injured not ! Like 

Time, 
Stern chronicler of centuries gone by, 
Doomed by a heavenly fiat still to climb, 

E 



60 CHAMOUNl. 

Swell and increase with years incessantly, 
Then yield at length to thee, most dread Eternity ! 

IV. 

Hark ! There are sounds of tumult and commotion 
Hurtling in murmurs on the distant air, 
Like the wild music of a wind-lashed ocean ; — 
They rage, they gather now ; yon valley fair 
Still sleeps in moonlight loveliness, but there 
Methinks a form of horror I behold 
With giant-stride descending! Tis Despair, 
Riding the rushing avalanche ; now rolled 
From its tall cliff, — by whom — what mortal may 
unfold ? 

v. 
Perchance a gale from fervid Italy 
Startled the air-hung thunderer ; or the tone 
Breathed from some hunter's horn ; or, it may be, 
The echoes of the mountain cataract, thrown 
Amid its voiceful snows, have thus called down 
The overwhelming ruin on the vale. 
Howbeit a mystery to man unknown, 



CHAMOUNT. 51 

'Twas but some Heaven-sent power that did prevail, 
For an inscrutable end, its slumbers to assail. 

VI. 

Madly it bursts along,— even as a river 
That gathers strength in its most fierce career ; 
The black and lofty pines a moment quiver 
Before its breath, but, as it draws more near, 
Crash — and are seen no more ! Fleet-footed Fear, 
Pale as that white-robed minister of wrath, 
In silent wilderment her face doth rear ; 
And, having gazed upon its blight and scathe, 
Flies with the swift Chamois from its death-dooming 
path. 



E2 



REMEMBER THE PAST ! 



Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 
Bright dreams of the past which she cannot destroy ! 

MOORE. 



I. 
" Remember the past !" — Oh ! since Fate has bereft 
me 
Of each star that once beamed on my pathway of 
life, — 
Since the storm is abroad, and no beacon is left me 

To guide my lone bark through the waters of strife,-^- 
What can still the black billow, or hush the loud blast, 
Like the spell that is wreathed with the thoughts of 
the past ? 



REMEMBER THE PAST ! 53 

II. 

I have struggled, and wildly, with Hate and with 
Malice ; 
In the dews of affliction my heart hath been 
steeped ; — 
I have dregged the last drops of Misfortune's dark 
chalice, 
And from seeds of delight only mournfulness 
reaped ; — 
Yet, 'mid all my wild wanderings, a halo was cast 
On the gloom of the ■ present' — by thoughts of the 
past ! 

III. 
When Detraction's keen arrows were rushing around 
me, 
And, though Truth was my buckler, had branded 
my name, 
When the friends who long years firm and faithful had 
found me 
Were the first to upbraid, and o'erwhelm me with 
blame ; 



54 REMEMBER THE PAST! 

What said I ? — Conviction will strike them at last ; — 
They once loved me ; — I'll turn to the thoughts of the 
past ! 

IV. 

I have sought in the wine-cup a Lethe for sorrow, 

And quaffed its warm tide till my spirit grew light ; 
But that mockery of mirth always fled ere the morrow, 

Leaving nothing behind it but blackness and blight ! 
And 'twere well : — who would wish that oblivion to last, 
Which with bitter must banish sweet thoughts of the 
past ! 

v. 
Like the bubbles of brightness which mantle and 
sparkle, 

When the juice of the grape in the goblet is gushing, 
And but shine for a moment, then sullenly darkle,— 

So the joy wine creates may as gaily be flushing 
O'er the pale cheek of woe, — but it fleeteth as fast : — 
Is it so — is it so with sweet thoughts of the past ? 



REMEMBER THE PAST ! 55 

VI. 

No ; — the garland of Memory new beauty discloses, 

When chastened by sadness and mellowed by years ; 

And though thorns but too frequently mix with the 

roses 

Whose stems have been watered and reared by our 

tears ; 

Let them circle the brow ; — sure the pain is surpassed 

By the gladness we gather from thoughts of the past ! 

VII. 

Then believe me, dear Zillah, there needs not a token 

To bid my heart dwell on the dream it loves best ; 
For each pulse must be withered, each chord must be 
broken, 
Ere the stamp of thy loveliness fade from my breast. 
Yes ! Ill think of thee, gentle and kind as thou wast, 
And the 'joy of my grief shall be thoughts of the 
past ! 



REMEMBER THE PAST 



VIIT. 

'Twas thine, when dark Fate, one by one, had been 
stealing 
Each hope I most cherished and clung to on earth, 
To unchain with thy glance the chilled fountain of 
feeling, 
And restore its locked tide to light, sunshine, and 
mirth. 
Gloom again is upon me ; — my soul is o'ercast ; — 
But there's balsam and bliss in the thoughts of the past ! 

IX. 

When we met, thy young brow with deep sadness was 

clouded, — 
Yet though pensive thy smiles, they were grateful 

to me ; 
And the bud woe's long winter had icily shrouded, 

Burst to bloom in an instant when glanced on by thee : 
Though the Simoom hath sped, and hath breathed its 

hot blast, 
There are blooms still unwithered — the thoughts of 

the past ! 



REMEMBER THE PAST ! 57 

X. 

Is the friendship sincerer — the love more enduring, 
Which years of probation alone can create, 

Than that which springs up, with a moment's maturing, 
In bosoms with passion and feeling elate ? . 

Surely not ! — If it is — what care I, so thou hast 

Pleasure, thrilling, as I have, in thoughts of the past ! 

XI. 

But it never may be ! In souls ardent as ours, 

When the seeds of affection have once been im- 
planted, 

A morning's bright sun-shine will call up the flowers, 
And prove, plainly, 'twas warmth and not ages they 
wanted ; — 

And though clouds burst above them, their blossoms 
will last, 

And gain freshness and strength from the thoughts of 
the past ! 



58 REMEMBER THE PAST! 

XII. 

Fare thee well ! — Fare thee well ! — If these wild -woven 
numbers 
May claim a fond place in a bosom so pure, 
Till death from mortality's coil disencumbers 

Thy soul, — and earth's dreams may no longer 
endure, 
Let the glass of thy mind give thee back, undefaced 
By time, absence, or sorrow, the thoughts of the past ! 

XIII. 

Fare thee well ! — Fare thee well ! — Whilst a pilgrim I 
wander, 

Unsoothed and unloved on this cold-hearted earth, 
On the hour we first met, and last parted, I '11 ponder, 

Till visions of gladness from grief shall have birth ; — 
Whatsoe'er may betide me, life's sands to their last 
Must have sped, ere I cease to remember the past ! 



THE WAKING DREAM. 



A SKETCH. 



had a dream, which was not all a dream. 

BYRON. 



[It is scarcely possible to describe the thrilling sensations of bliss 
which he 

« who long has tost 
On the thorny bed of pain' 

experiences, when permitted for the first time to ' breathe and walk 
again ' under the glorious canopy of heaven. Gray, in his Ode on the 
Pleasures arising from Vicissitude, observes of a person under such 
circumstances, with infinite beauty as well as truth :— 

« The meanest floweret of the rale, 
The simplest note that swells the gale, 
The common sun, the air, the skies 
To Him are opening Paradise ! ' 



60 THE WAKING ORRAM. 



In the fulness of heart which the contemplation of a setting sun, 
diffusing its hues of golden light over a wide and singularly beautiful 
extent of landscape, and this, too, after weeks of sultriness and suffer- 
ing, were the following lines poured forth. Every one has, doubtless, 
on such an occasion, invested the fantastic clouds which sport in a 
summer sky with such personifications as best consorted with the 
associations and temper of mind of the moment. The writer had just 
laid down Milton's Paradise Lost, and this will in some measure 
account for the fanciful vision he has attempted to depict.] 



"W hy, what a Paradise is earth to-day ! 
Some heavy torpor, sure, hath locked my soul 
In dull, unvarying listlessness 'till now ! — 
Some envious film hath, sure, obscured my sight, 
And veiled this world of beauty from my view, 
For long, long years ! — Yon ever-glorious sun 
Darts his life-giving beams upon my heart, 
And stirs it to a deeper sense of bliss, 
Than e'er it felt before. My pulses grow 



THE WAKING DREAM. 61 

Instinct with new existence, fresher life, — 
And all around me gathers as I gaze, 
Hues of a more pervading loveliness 
Than it was wont to wear ! The clouds above 
Stream on like molten silver ; now and then 
Fretted with crimson tinges, — and anon 
Streaked with the deep blue of the upper sky 
That spreads and spreads behind them in a sea 
Of living sapphire. Multitudes of forms, 
Palpably bright and beautiful, are moving 
Athwart the depths of the eternal heavens, 
Making an unimaginable theme 
For after-thought to dwell upon ! I see 
(So fancy in her wayward mood would deem) 
File upon file of rich and gorgeous shapes, 
Advancing, and advancing without end, 
Bearing the banners of the Lord of Hosts ! 

Throned in a car, inwoven of the beams 
Of the descending sun, whose flashing wheels 



62 THE WAKING DREAM. 

Leave a long trail of glory as they speed, 

Towers the mighty and majestic form 

Of the imperial Captain ; — HE who led 

The forces of the Omnipotent against 

The dark and daring Lucifer, and hurled 

The ' race rebellious ' to * combustion down ' 

And ' bottomless perdition !' On his brow — 

His starry brow — a coronal is wreathed, 

Worthy the temples of the King of Kings. 

His shining sword is sheathless, — and its blade — 

Like a death-dooming meteor ere it falls 

In ruin upon earth — flashes in light, 

In terrible light, whichever way it turns ! 

Celestial scorn, — defiance without pride, 

And all the wrath the son of God may own, 

Hath curled his lip in ' beautiful disdain ;' 

His deep eye streams in lightning ; — and he grasps 

Ten thousand thousand thunders ! 

On the distance, 
A huge and moving mass appears to rise 



THE WAKING DREAM. 63 

Darkening the air. I look again, and lo ! 
Myriads of forms, in phalanx firm conjoined, 
Rush on to ruin in one turbulent host 
Against the great Messiah ! In the van, 
The master-demon lifts his lordly crest, 
In fierce and insolent triumph, and abroad 
Waves his tremendous falchion ! In his eye, 
Pride — Hate — Ambition — Cruelty — are glassed, 
As in a mirror. O'er his lofty front 
His ebon locks, Medusa-like, are wreathed 
In many a snaky fold ; and on his brow, 
Undiademed, are throned revenge sublime, 
Bloated defiance, lust of pomp and power, 
And resolution not to be subdued. 

The hostile bands move on, and now have gained 
Midway the arch of heaven ! — They pause awhile ; — 
Then to the charge, — and straight from pole to pole, 
The brunt of battle rings ! 



64 THE WAKING DREAM. 

The sun hath dropped 
Into the blushing bosom of the night, 
And with it the bright pageant too hath vanished ! 
The clash of helm and shield, the bray of war, 
Fancy had wafted on my dreaming ear, 
Have sunk to silence. Not a breath disturbs 
The ' deep serene ' around me ; and above, 
Rises a lofty cupola of sky, 
In blue, eye-soothing beauty and repose ! 
No battling seraphim are there ; but clouds 
Slow sailing on, in placid loveliness, 
Like pleasure-barks upon a summer sea. 
No shields and helms shine forth in dazzling lustre ; 
But where the God of day hath left his smile, 
Are countless hues chameleon -like, that change 
As the glance strives to trace them, and become 
Momently paler than before. Anon, 
Twilight begins to weave her fairy web 
Of light and gloom, and, from the deepening East, 
Night spreads her ebon arms to clasp the world ! 



YEARS OF ANGUISH AND GLOOM 
HAVE GONE BY. 



I will not court Lethean streams 
My sorrowing sense to steep, 

Nor drink oblivion to the themes 
O'er which I love to weep. 

LOGAN. 



I. 

Years of anguish and gloom have gone by 
Since I last drank the breath of thy sigh ; 
And — compelled by hard Fortune to sever, — 
We parted in sadness — for ever ! 

ii. 
What a host of remembrances rush 
On my brain, — and my tears how they gush. 
When in solitude's hour I dwell 
On thy wild but prophetic ' Farewell ! ' 

P 



66 YEARS OF ANGUISH 

III. 

Yes, * for ever ' thou saidst, though I deemed 
Fortune kinder, perchance, than she seemed ; 
And, chiding thy fears with a kiss, 
Bade thee dim not those moments of bliss ! 

IV. 

Even then death's dark web was around thee ; 
The spells of the spoiler had bound thee ; 
And the Angel from Heaven that brings 
Fate's last flat — was waving his wings ! 

v. 
We parted. — What pen may portray 
The despair that o'ershadowed that day ! 
And even deeper our grief had been then, 
Had we known we should meet not again ! 

VI. 

We parted. — Long years have now past 
Since the hour that I gazed on thee last ; 
But, fresh in my memory, yet 
Bloom the flowers of most mournful regret ! 



AND GLOOM HAVE GONE BY. 67 

VII. 

Tis said, that for sorrow's worst sting 
Time a swift-healing balsam can bring ; — 
That earth's ills all must own his dominion, 
And recede when they're touched by his pinion ! 

VIII. 

Could the power of Oblivion control 
All the gloom that oppresses my soul ; 
Could even Time with his wing interpose, 
And freeze feeling's bright fount as it flows ; — 

IX. 

I would scorn the hard chain that must chill 
In my bosom affection's fond thrill ; 
For the boon were ungrateful to me, 
If it banished one sweet dream of thee ! 

x. 
But this thought shall afford me relief, 
In my moments of passion and grief, 
That — whate'er be the depth of my woes — 
They can never disturb thy repose ! 

f 2 



* YEARS OF ANGUISH, &C. 

XI. 

No : — the venom-dipped arrows of doom 
Cannot pierce to thy heart through the tomb ; 
And, though bitter, 'tis balm to my breast, 
To know, thou'rt for ever at rest ! 

XII. 

No :— the clouds that burst over me now 
Cannot ruffle thy beautiful brow ; — 
In its sorrows my soul may repine ; — 
They can wake no wild echoes in thine ! 

XIII. 

Let the storms of adversity lour ! 
So that thou hast escaped from their power ; 
They may pour forth their wrath on my head ! — 
They can break not the sleep of the dead. 

xiv. 
And the poison of Envy and Malice, 
May still further imbitter Life's chalice ; 
But the cup, with a smile, shall be quaffed, 
Since thou liv'st not to share in the draught ! 



iETNA. 



A SKETCH. 



I looked, and saw the face of things quite changed. 

PARADISE LOST. 



It was a lovely night ; — the crescent moon, 

(A bark of beauty on its dark blue sea,) 

Winning its way amid the billowy clouds, 

Unoared, unpiloted, moved on. The sky 

Was studded thick with stars, that glittering streamed 

An intermittent splendour through the heavens. 

I turned my glance to earth ; — the mountain winds 

Were sleeping in their caves, — and the wild sea, 

With its innumerous billows, melted down 

To one unmoving mass, lay stretched beneath 



70 JETNA. 

In deep and tranced slumber : giving back 

The host above with all its dazzling sheen, 

To Fancy's ken, as though the luminous sky 

Had rained down stars upon its breast. Suddenly, 

The scene grew dim — those living lights rushed out, 

And the fair moon, with all her gorgeous train, 

Had vanished like the frost-work of a dream ! 

Darkness arose;— and volumed clouds swept o'er 
Earth and the ocean. Through the gloom, at times, 
Sicilian ^Etna's blood-red flame was seen 
Fitfully flickering. The stillness now 
Yielded to murmurs hurtling on the air 
From out her deep-voiced crater ; and the winds 
Burst through their bonds of adamant, and lashed 
The weltering ocean, that so lately lay 
Calm as the slumbers of a cradled child, 
To a demoniac's madness. The broad wave 
Swelled into boiling surges, which appeared, 
Whene'er the mountain's lurid light revealed 



JETNA. 71 

Their progress to the eye, presumptuously 
To dash against the ebon roof of heaven. 

Then came a sound— a fearful, deafening sound — 
Sudden and loud, as if an earthquake rent 
The globe to its foundations ! With a rush, 
Startling deep Midnight on her throne, rose up, 
From the red mouth of ^Etna's burning mount, 
A giant tree of fire, whence sprouted out 
Thousands of boundless branches, which put forth 
Their fiery foliage in the sky, and showered 
Their fruit, the red-hot levin, to the earth, 
In terrible profusion. Some fell back 
Into the hell from whence they sprang ; and some, 
Gaining an impulse from the winds that raged 
Unceasingly around, sped o'er the main, 
And, hissing, dived to an eternal home 
Beneath its yawning billows. The black smoke, 
Blotting the snows that shroud chill Curaa's height, 
Rolled down the mountain's sides, girding its base 



72 iETNA. 

With artificial darkness ; for the sea, 

Catania's palaces and towers, and even 

The far-off shores of Syracuse, revealed 

In the deep glare that deluged heaven and earth, 

Flashed forth in fearful light upon the eye. 

And there was seen a lake of liquid fire 

Streaming and streaming slowly on its course ; 

And widening as it flowed (like the dread jaws 

Of some huge monster ere its prey be fanged). 

At its approach the loftiest pines bent down, 

And strewed its surface with their trunks ; — the earth 

Shook at its coming ; — towns and villages, 

Deserted of their 'habitants, were whelmed 

Amid the flood, and lent it ampler force ; — 

The noble's palace, and the peasant's cot, 

Alike but served to swell its fiery tide : 

Shrieks of wild anguish rushed upon the gale, — 

And universal Nature seemed to wrestle 

With the gaunt forms of Darkness and Despair. 



STANZAS. 



FROM THE ITALIAN. 



I. 

ibs ! Pride of soul shall nerve me now, 

To think of thee no more ; 
And coldness steel the heart and brow 

That passion swayed before ! 
Think'st thou that I will share thy breast, 
Whilst dwells a fondlier cherished guest 

Deep in its inmost core ? 
No ; — by my hopes of Heaven, I'll be 
All — all — or nothing unto thee ! 



74 STANZAS. 

II. 

Thy hand hath oft been clasped in mine, — 

Fondly, since first we met ; 
My lip hath even been pressed to thine — 

In greeting wild ; — but yet, 
Lightly avails it, now, to tell 
Of moments only loved too well — 

Joys I would fain forget, 
Since Memory's star can ill control 
The moonless midnight of my soul ! 

in. 
But I'll reproach thee not ; — Farewell ! 

Whilst yet I'm somewhat free, 
'Twere better far to break the spell 

That binds my soul to thee, 
Than wait till Time each pulse shall lend 
A strength that will not let it bend 

To Reason's stern decree : 
Since Fate hath willed that we must part, 
'Twere better now to brave the smart. 



STANZAS. 75 

IV. 

Not seldom is the soul depressed 

Whilst tearless is the eye ; 
For there are woes that wring the breast 

When Feeling's fount is dry ; — 
Sorrows that do not fade with years, 
But — dwelling all too deep for tears — 

Rankle eternally ! — 
Such now as in my bosom swell, 
Read thou in this wild word, — Farewell ' 



TO A POETICAL FRIEND. 



Be not over exquisite 
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils ; 
For, grant they be so, while they rest unknown. 
Why need a man forestall his date of grief, 
And run to meet what he would most avoid ? 

MILTON. 



All hail, dear friend ! The winds are singing 

The year's wild requiem fitfully 
And Autumn, now, is swiftly winging 

Her golden flight, o'er the heaving sea, 
To some lovelier clime than this ; — in sadness 

Of heart, I gaze on her farewell beam ; — 
But away ! This strain shall be one of gladness f 

I'll startle thee not with a selfish theme ! 



TO A POETICAL FRIEND. 77 

II. 
All hail, dear friend ! — Though clouds may lour, 

And wintry storms descend awhile, 
Ere long shall Spring resume her power, 

And Summer come on with her radiant smile. 
Then a truce to gloom ; — though a shade of sorrow 

May darken our beams of bliss to-day, — 
Heed it not ! — Joy's sun will rise to-morrow, 

And chase each deepening tint away ! 
in. 
Shall we, whose hearts of warmth and feeling- 
Vibrate to Pleasure's tenderest touch, 
Supinely grieve, that Fate's hand is stealing 

Some flowers of life — we have loved too much ? 
Shalt thou — who cleav'st, with eagle pinion, 

The loftiest skies that Genius knows, 
Stoop thy plume of pride to the base dominion 

Of each ruffian blast that beneath thee blows ? 



78 TO A POETICAL FRIEND. 

IV. 
Forbid it, ye who prompt the numbers 

That soothe the Bard in his wildest mood ! — 
Forbid it, ye who on his slumbers 

In dreams of glory and light intrude ! 
No ; — hearts that each thrill of joy may waken 

Should, bear unmurmuring, Sorrow's sting ; 
Nor Genius from its height be shaken 

By every buffet from Fortune's wing ! 



THE vEOLIAN HARP. 



Methinks it should have been impossible 
Not to love all things in a world like this, 
Where even the breezes and the common air 
Contain the power and spirit of harmony. 

COLERIDGE. 



Harp of the winds ! What music may compare 
With thy wild gush of melody ! — Or where, 
'Mid this world's discords, may we hope to meet 
Tones like to thine — so soothing and so sweet ! 

Harp of the winds ! When summer's Zephyr wings 
Its airy flight across thy tremulous strings, 
As if enamoured of its breath, they move 
With soft low murmurs, — like the voice of Love 
Ere passion deepens it, or sorrow mars 
Its harmony with sighs ! — All earthborn jars 



80 THE JEOLIAN HARP. 

Confess thy soothing power, when strains like these, 
From thy bliss-breathing chords, are borne upon the 
breeze ! 

But when a more pervading force compels 
Their sweetness into strength, — and swiftly swells 
Each tenderer tone to fulness, — what a strange 
And spirit-stirring sense that fitful change 
Wakes in my heart : — visions of days long past, — 
Hope — joy — pride — pain — and passion — with the blast 
Come rushing on my soul, — till I believe 
Some strong enchantment, purposed to deceive, 
Hath fixed its spell upon me, aud I grieve 
I may not burst its bonds ! — Anon, the gale 
Softly subsides, — and whisperings wild prevail, 
Of inarticulate melody, which seem 
Not music, but its shadow ; — what a dream 
Is to reality ; — or as the swell 
(Those who have felt alone have power to tell) 






THE /EOLIAN HARP. 81 

Of the full heart, where love was late a guest, 

Ere it recovers from its sweet unrest ! — 

The charm is o'er ! — Each warring thought flits by ! — 

Quelled by that more than mortal minstrelsy, 

Each turbulent feeling owns its sweet control, 

And peace, once more, returns,, and settles on my soul ! 

N 

Harp of the winds ! Thy ever tuneful chords, 
In language far more eloquent than words 
Of earth's best skilled philosophers, do teach 
A deep and heavenly lesson ! Could it reach, 
With its impressive truths, the heart of man, 
Then were he blessed indeed ; and he might scan 
His coming miseries with delight ! The storm 
Of keen adversity would then deform 
No more the calm stream of his thoughts, nor bring 
Its wonted * grisly train ;' but, rather wring 
Sweetness from out his grief, — till even the string 
On which his sorrows hung, should make reply, 
However rudely swept, in tones of melody ! 



STANZAS 

TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM POWER WATTS, 
AGED THREE TEARS. 

Sweet flower ! with flowers I strew thy narrow bed ! 
Sweets to the sweet ! Farewell ! 

SHAKSPEARE. 

I. 
A cloud is on my heart and brow, — 

The tears are in my eyes, — 
And wishes fond, all idle now, 

Are stifled into sighs ; — 
As musing on thine early doom, 
Thou bud of beauty snatched to bloom, 

So soon, 'neath milder skies ! 
I turn — thy painful struggle past — 
From what thou art to what thou wast ! 



TO THE MEMORY OF W. P. WATTS. 83 

II 

I think of all thy winning ways, 

Thy frank but boisterous glee ; — 
Thy arch sweet smiles, — thy coy delays, — 

Thy step, so light and free, — 
Thy sparkling glance, and hasty run, 
Thy gladness when thy task was done, 

And gained thy mother's knee ; — 
Thy gay, good-humoured, childish ease, 
And all thy thousand arts to please ! 

in. 
Where are they now X — And where, oh where, 

The eager fond caress ? 
The blooming cheek, so fresh and fair, 

The lips, all sought to press ? — 
The open brow, and laughing eye, — 
The heart that leaped so joyously ? 

(Ah ! had we loved them less !) 
Yet there are thoughts can bring relief, 
And sweeten even this cup of grief. 



84 STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF 

IV. 

What hast thou 'scaped 1 — A thorny scene ! 

A wilderness of woe ! 
Where many a blast of anguish keen 

Had taught thy tears to flow ! 
Perchance some wild and withering grief, 
Had sered thy summer's earliest leaf, 

In these dark bowers below ! 
Or sickening chills of hope deferred, 
To strife thy gentlest thoughts had stirred ! 

v. 
What hast thou 'scaped ? — Life's weltering sea, 

Before the storm arose ; 
Whilst yet its gliding waves were free 

From aught that marred repose ! 
Safe from the thousand throes of pain, — 
Ere sin or sorrow breathed a stain 

Upon thine opening rose ! 
And who can calmly think of this, 
Nor envy thee thy doom of bliss ? 



WILLIAM POWER WATTS. 85 

VI. 

I culled from home's beloved bowers, 

To deck thy last long sleep, 
The brightest-hued, most fragrant flowers 

That summer's dews may steep: — 
The rose-bud — emblem meet — was there, — 
The violet blue, and jasmine fair, 

That drooping, seemed to weep ; — 
And, now, I add this lowlier spell : — 
Sweets to the passing sweet ! Farewell ! 






MORNING. 

A SKETCH. 

Yet hath the morning sprinkled through the clouds 
But half her tincture ; and the soil of night 
Hangs still upon the bosom of the air. 

CHAPMAN. 

T ROM out the purple portals of the East, 

Peers the first dawn of day upon the world, 

With dim, uncertain light. Huge clouds still wrap 

The base of fiery Stromboli ; — and Night, 

With her black waving pennons, lingers yet, 

Far in the western hemisphere. — Long trains 

Of tremulous mist curtain the deep blue breast 

Of Adria's waveless ocean. Some repose, 

In folds fantastically graceful, on 

The glassy waters ; — others, slowly wind 

Their way in silvery circuitings to heaven ; 






MORNING. 87 

And, as in mockery of the glance that strives 
To trace their airy wanderings, dissolve, 
Invisibly, whilst yet the gazer's eye 
Strains its in tensest nerve. Light breaks, 
With giant stride, upon the earth, and breathes 
The breath of life into the stagnant veins 
Of slumber-locked creation. Yon white clouds, 
That seem to rise like mountains from the sea, 
Garbed with untrodden snows, suddenly grow 
Radiant with streaks of gold ; — a deeper blush 
Of crimson now pervades them, and the sun, 
Lifting his orb above the wave, looks out 
In glory on the world ! 

Nature around 
Hath wakened from her trance, and shaking off 
The night dews from her beauty, stands revealed 
In rainbow-tinted loveliness to man. 



EVENING. 



A SKETCH. 



The holy time is quiet as a Nun, 
Breathless with adoration ! 

WORDSWORTH. 



1 is Evening. — On Abruzzo's hill 
The summer sun is lingering still, — 
As though unwilling to bereave 

The landscape of its softest beam, — 
So fair, — one can but look and grieve 

To think, that like a lovely dream, 
A few brief fleeting moments more 
Must see its reign of beauty o'er ! 



EVENING. 89 

Tis Evening ; — and a general hush 

Prevails, save when the mountain spring 
Bursts from its rock, with fitful gush, 

And makes melodious murmuring ; — 
Or when from Corno's height of fear, 

The echoes of its convent bell 
Come wafted on the far-off ear 

With soft and diapason swell. 
But sounds so wildly sweet as they, 
Ah, who would ever wish away 1 — 

Yet there are seasons when the soul, 

Rapt in some dear delicious dream, 
Heedless what skies may o'er it roll, 

What rays of beauty round it beam, 
Shuts up its inmost cell ; — lest aught 

However wondrous, wild, or fair, 
Shine in — and interrupt the thought, 

The one deep thought that centres there ! 



90 EVENING. 

Though with the passionate sense, so shrined 

And canonized, the hues of grief 
Perchance be darkly, closely twined, 

The lonely bosom spurns relief! 
And could the breathing scene impart 

A charm to make its sadness less, 
'Twould hate the balm that healed its smart, 

And curse the spell of loveliness 
That pierced its cloud of gloom, if so 
It stirred the stream of thought below. 



WOMAN. 



AN EPISODE. 



I'm fon(J of little girls ; I should not say 

Of little only, for I have for all 
Ladies a tender penchant, whether they 

Be young or old, thin, fat, or short, or tall ; — 
But here the meaning I would fain convey 

Is, that I love them when they're young and 
small, — 
Just at that age when Life's delicious bud 
Begins to burst the bonds of babyhood ! 



92 WOMAN. 

The April of existence ! When the eye 
Is bright and unacquainted with a tear, 

Save such as hope can in an instant dry ; 
The brow and bosom ever calm and clear, — 

Or if disturbed, but like the changing sky 
Of that first delicate season of the year, 

Dim for a moment — in the next to shine 

With added grace, and lustre more divine. 

There is a blue-eyed cherub whom my Muse 
In earlier hours hath sung of, in whose cheeks, 

Collected in one blaze, the rainbow hues 

Of childish beauty beam, like the rich streaks 

Of the deep East at sunrise : I did use 

To fondle this arch prattler, watch her freaks 

And infant playfulness, until I grew 

Enamoured of the blossom ere it blew. 

And oft in after-times, when years had rolled 
On their eternal way, and cares came on, — 



WOMAN. 93 

When Fortune frowned, and summer friends grew 
cold, — 

Have my thoughts turned upon this youthful one, — 
This early bud, — this babe of five years old, — 

With sweet and tender yearnings ! Fate hath strown 
Full many a thorn upon my path below, 
Since last I kissed her bright and sparkling brow ! 

I cannot say I'm partial to a boy, 

At any age ; I've noticed from his birth, 

There's always an admixture of alloy 

In Man ;— his clay would seem of coarser earth 

Than our all-wise Creator did employ 

In moulding our first mother. There's a dearth 

Of kindliness in him ; — the sordid elf 

Too often thinks — plans — acts — but for himself ! 

Whilst Woman — gentle Woman, has a heart 
Fraught with the sweet humanities of life ; 

Swayed by no selfish aim she bears her part 
In all our joys and woes ; — in pain and strife 



94 WOMAN. 

Fonder and still more faithful ! When the smart 

Of care assails the bosom, — or the knife 
Of ' keen endurance ' cuts us to the soul, 
First to support us — foremost to console ! 

Oh ! what were Man in dark misfortune's hour 
Without her cherishing aid ? — A nerveless thing, 

Sinking ignobly 'neath the passing power 
Of every blast of Fortune. She can bring 

* A balm for every wound.' As when the shower 
More heavily falls, the bird of eve will sing 

In richer notes ; sweeter is woman's voice 

When through the storm it bids the soul rejoice ! 

Is there a sight more touching and sublime 
Than to behold a creature, who, till grief 

Had taught her lofty spirit how to climb 
Above vexation, — and whose fragile leaf, 

Whilst yet 'twas blooming in a genial clime, 
Trembled at every breath, and sought relief 



WOMAN. 9 

If Heaven but seemed to lour, — suddenly, 
Grow vigorous in misfortune, and defy 

The pelting storm, that in its might comes down 
To beat it to the earth ; — to see a rose 

Which in its summer's gaiety a frown 

Had withered from its stem, 'mid wintry snows 

Lift up its head undrooping, as if grown 
Familiar with each chilling blast that blows 

Across the waste of life — and view it twine 

Around man's rugged trunk its arms divine ! 

It is a glorious spectacle ! — A sight 

Of power to stir the chords of generous hearts 
To feeling's finest issues ; and requite 

The bosom for all world-inflicted smarts. 
Such is dear Woman ! When the envious blight 

Of Fate descends upon her, it imparts 
New worth — new grace ; — so precious odours grow, 
Sweeter when crushed — more fragrant in their woe ! 



96 WOMAN. 

So much for Man's sweet consort,— Heaven's best gift, 
Beloved and loving Woman ! Even a thought 

Of her, not seldom, hath the power to lift 

My soul above the toils the world hath wrought 

Round its aspiring wings. — But I'm adrift ; 
Again have left my hero ! Well, 'tis nought ; 

Wiser than I have wandered from their way 

When Woman was the star that led astray ! 



AN EP1CEDIUM. 



By foreign hands his dying eyes were closed j 
By foreign hands his manly limbs composed ; 
By foreign hands his humble grave adorned j 
By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned. 

POPE. 



I. 
He left his home with a bounding heart, 

For the world was all before him ; 
And felt it scarce a pain to part, 

Such sun-bright beams came o'er him. 
He turned him to visions of future years, 

The rainbow's hues were 'round them ; 
And a father's bodings — a mother's tears — 

Might not weigh with the hopes that crowned them. 



AN EPICEDIUM, 



II. 



That mother's cheek is far paler now, 

Than when she last caressed him ; 
There's an added gloom on that father's brow, 

Since the hour when last he blessed him. 
Oh ! that all human hopes should prove 

Like the flowers that will fade to-morrow ; 
And the cankering fears of anxious love 

Ever end in truth — and sorrow ! 



He left his home with a swelling sail, 

Of fame and fortune dreaming, — 
With a spirit as free as the vernal gale, 

Or the pennon above him streaming. 
He hath reached his goal : — by a distant wave, 

'Neath a sultry sun they've laid him ; 
And stranger-forms bent o'er his grave 

When the last sad rites were paid him. 



AN EPICEDIUM, 



IV. 



He should have died in his own loved land, 

With friends and kindred near him ; 
Not have withered thus on a foreign strand, 

With no thought, save of Heaven, to cheer him. 
But what recks it now ? Is his sleep less sound 

In the port where the wild winds swept him, 
Than if home's green turf his grave had bound, 

Or the hearts he loved had wept him \ 



Then why repine ? Can he feel the rays 

That pestilent sun sheds o'er him ; 
Or share the griefs that may cloud the days 

Of the friends who now deplore him ? 
No ; his bark's at anchor — its sails are furled, — 

It hath 'scaped the storm's deep chiding ; 
And, safe from the buffeting waves of the world, 

In a haven of Peace is riding. 



LofC. H * 






EUROPA. 

FROM A PAINTING BY GUIDO IN THE DULWICH 
GALLERY. 

Her golden ringlets float around her form 
In bright but wild profusion ; some repose 
In radiant clusters on her stainless breast, 
Like the rich beams of summer's noonday sun 
On rocks of alabaster ; — others stream 
(Pennons of beauty to a bark of love) 
Loose to the ocean breezes. Her blue eyes, 
Lit with intenser and more passionate thought 
Than would beseem the wonted air of peace 
That characters her countenance, dart forth 



EUROPA. 101 

Glances of wilderment — it may be fear 

On the wild waves behind her ; and she clings 

Closer and closer to the stately neck 

Of that imperial spurner of the spray, — 

That lord of lowing herds, the milk-white bull ! 

With unremitting speed the godlike brute, 

Rejoicing in his glorious freight, moves on : — 

What are the waves to him ? they may not stay 

His ardent course ; — the warring winds may howl 

With fitful violence round the vessel's prow, 

And turn it from its track ; — the whirlpool's depths 

May draw it down to never-ending night ; 

But all their powers conjoined may ne'er prevail 

Over this living, beauty-crested bark, 

Which proudly dashes on — and on — and on — 

To where the towers of Crete lift up their heads 

Above the dark blue sea. With what a front — 

A stern unyielding front — he stems the wave, 

And strains each lusty nerve to gain the strand, 

.Now swelling on his sight ! 



102 EUROPA. 

Well may we 'count 
The Boy-God's power omnipotent, since he 
(And sure those witching fables that would prove 
His force on human hearts, we half deem true) 
Could thus stir up in an immortal's breast 
His deep-pervading passion, and incite 
Even the Almighty Jove to change his form — 
His own majestic seeming — and imbrute 
His mighty spirit in a coil like this,' 
All for an earthly maiden. 






LINES 



WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 



Nay, reproach me not, sweet one ! I still am thine own, 
Though the world in its toils hath detained me 
awhile ! 
The deep vision that spelled my lone bosom is flown, 

And — a truant to love — I return to thy smile. 
It hath ever been thus ; — when condemned or deceived 

By the many I scorned, or the /en? that I loved ; 
Whilst I breathed my contempt, or in silentness 
grieved, 
It was bliss to remember whose truth I had proved ; 
And the falsehood of friends, the crowd's hollow 

decree, 
Served to bind me more fondly and firmly to thee ! 



104 LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 
II. 

Yes, I still am thine own : — though I sometimes may 
mingle, 
In lightness of spirit, with fools I despise ; 
In my heart — my dark heart— dwelling silent and 
single, 
Is the thought of all others it soothes me to prize. 
If I join the loud throng in its madness of mirth, 
I but think how much purer our pleasures l^e 
been ; — 
If I gaze on the fair- bosomed daughters of earth, 

Tis to turn to thy beauties— of beauty the Queen ! 
And if from man's dwellings to Nature I flee, 
Glen, mountain, and ocean, seem breathing of thee ! 



When a soft soothing glance from the eye of Affection 
Breaks my midnight of gloom with its halo divine, 

How surpassingly sweet is the fond recollection 

Of the passionate lo\c ever beaming from thine ! - 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 105 

'Twill beam on me no more. — Yet though Death has 
bereft me 
Of a form such as seraphs from heaven might adore, — 
In this image thy features of beauty are left me, 

And the lines of thy soul in my heart's core of core ! 
Then reproach me not, sweet one ! for time shall not 

see 
The hour that estranges one deep thought of thee ! 



POSTHUMOUS FAME. 



WRITTEN AFTER PERUSING A PARAGRAPH RESPECTING 
THE MONUMENT RECENTLY ERECTED TO THE MEMORY 
OF BURNS. 



It is a well-known fact, that bards have ever, 
From Homer downwards, lived upon their wits ; 

And though, no doubt, they always have been clever 
At brandishing their knives and forks, tid bits 

Of calipash or venison have never, 

Or seldom, been reserved for them ; and spits 

With good roast joints not often have been turning 

For them, men deem the beacon-lights of learning. 






POSTHUMOUS FAME. 107 

Their's have been fame and flattery alone, 

(But pudding is more nourishing than praise ;) 
They've asked for bread, and oft received — a 
stone ! 

Living, have passed unheeded through the maze 
Of a cold-hearted world : — their deaths once known, 

The titled fool hath forward pressed to raise 
Tombs o'er their ashes, that he thus might claim 

One leaf of laurel for his paltry name. 

Shades of the mighty dead ! arise and say 

How much ye scorn such mockery ! —Stand 
forth, 

Ye heirs of immortality ! that they, 
The proud, who deem nobility of birth 

Surpasses rank of mind, no longer may 
Cherish the weak delusion, but to worth 

Yield, as becomes them, precedence — and learn 

To honour those whom they were wont to spurn. 



108 POSTHUMOUS FAME. 

Match me among the Magnates of the world — 

Those things of splendid nothingness — bright 
names, 

Who, when the roll of glory is unfurled, 
Upon posterity can show such claims 

As Milton, Shakspeare, Spenser. Those have 
hurled 
Some fellow-despots from their thrones, their aims 

Still purchased but with blood ; and they have made, 

Their worship of the shadow of a shade ; 

But these, the Muses' sons, have toiled to gain 

Renown which could not profit them ; — through 
years 

Of unregarded poverty and pain, — 

Slaves to their wild and passionate hopes and fears, — 

Oh ! how intensely did they strive to' attain 
Fame that should be immortal ; and the tears 

Of blood their hearts have wept, have been repaid 

With wreaths of laurel that can never fade ! 



A FAREWELL. 



Have we not loved, as none have ever loved, 
And must we part, as none have ever parted? 

MATURIN. 



I. 

Yes, — I will join the world again, 

And mingle with the crowd ; 
And though my mirth may be but pain, 
My laughter, wilderment of brain, — 

At least it shall be loud ! 
II. 
Tis true, to bend before the shrine 

Of heartless revelry, 
Is slavery to a soul like mine ; 
Yet better thus in chains to pine, 

Than ever crouch to thee ! 



110 A FAREWELL. 

III. 

Ay, better far to steep the soul 
In pleasure's sparkling tide ; 
Bid joy's unholy sounds control 
The maddening thoughts that o'er it roll, 
Than wither 'neath thy pride. 

IV. 

Yet I have loved thee — ah, how well ! 

But words are wild and weak ; 
The depth of that pervading spell, 
I dare not trust my tongue to tell, — 

And hearts may never speak ! 
v. 
The stubborn pride, none else might rein, 

Hath stooped to love and thee ; 
But, as the pine upon the plain, 
Bent by the blast, springs up again, 

So shall it fare with me. 



A FAREWELL. Ill 

VI. 

Still, whilst I darkly sojourn here, 

Spite of each vain endeavour, 
Thy name, through many a future year, 
Will be the knell, to my lonely ear, 

Of bliss — gone by for ever ! 

VII. 

Though thou hast wrapped me in a cloud, 

Nought now may e'er dispel, 
In silentness my wrongs I'll shroud, 
And love, reproach, pain, passion, crowd 

Into one word — Farewell ! 

VIII. 

'Tis done — the task of soul is taught ; 

At length I've burst the spell, 
Which, round my heart so firmly wrought, 
Fettered each loftier, nobler thought ; 

And now, 'Farewell— Farewell ! 



STANZAS 



SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON THE ENVELOPE 
TO A LOCK OF HAIR. 



Fledge of a love as pure and deep 

As ever thrilled in mortal breast ! 
I would not, could I break thy sleep, 

Recall thee from the couch of rest, 
Where thou art now in peace reclining, 
A stranger to the world's repining ! 

[I. 
No ! Bright as was thy brief career, 

In this wild waste of storm and gloom, — 
And much as I have wished thee here, 

My soul's dark sorrows to illume, — 
In loneliness I'd rather languish, 
Than have thee here to share my anguish ! 



STANZAS. 113 

III. 

Besides, would even Heaven allow 

Thy advent to this earth again ; 
That boon to thee were cruel now, 

Since human ills — a numerous train — 
Would cross thee in thy path of life, 
And stir thy young sweet thoughts to strife ! 

IV. 

Yet looking on this sun-bright tress 

Unlocks the source of dried-up tears ; 
And thoughts, intense and maddening, press 

On my hot brain ; — though hopes or fears, 
Since thou and thy sweet mother perished, 
Have ne'er by me been felt or cherished. 

v. 
Blossom of Love ! Yes, on my mind 

Strange and unusual feelings rush ; 
The flood-gates of my heart unbind, 

And bid its waters wildly gush, — 
As gazing on these threads I see 
The all that now remains of thee ! 



114 STANZAS. 

VI. 

Blossom of Love ! Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

I go to join the noisy throng ; 
But, in my soul's deep — inmost cell, 

Thoughts that to thine and thee belong, 
Will ever bloom as fresh and fair , 
As when they first were planted there ! 

VII. 

And, oh, if tears of woe may nourish 
The flowers of Memory in the breast ; 

Then those in mine will surely flourish, 
And each succeeding hour invest 

Their stems with charms unknown before, — 

Till we three meet to part no more ! 



FORGET THEE 1 NO, NEVER ! 



Wrong thee, Bianca* No, not for the earth ! 
Not for earth's brightest ' 

MIT.MAN. 



Forget thee ? — No, never ! — Why cherish a thought 
To the friend of thy soul, with injustice so fraught? 
Why embitter our fast-fading moments of bliss 
By suspicion "so wild and unfounded as this ? 
Forget thee ? — No, never ! — Among the light-hearted, 
Love may sink to decay when the fond ones are parted ; 
But affection like ours is too deep and sublime, 
To be chilled in its ardour by absence or time. 
Then, gentle one, banish all doubt from thy breast : 
By the kiss that so late on thy lips I impressed, — 
By the griefs that have blighted the bloom of my years, — 
By the hope that still calls forth a smile thro' my tears, — 

T 2 



116 FORGET THEE? NO, NEVER ! 

By the hour of our parting — thus sweetly delayed, — 
By truth firmly tried — and by trust unbetrayed, — 
I will not forget thee ! — till life's latest ray 
In the dark night of death shall have melted away ; 
'Mid ambition — fame— fortune — and power, — and 

gladness, — 
Pain, — and peril — and hate — and contention — and 

sadness ; — 
Though changes the darkest and brightest betide, — 
Thy friendship shall soothe me, thy counsels shall guide, 
And thy memory at once be my solace and pride ! 



CYTHNA. 



The glassy splendour of her eye 
Already sparkled of the sky; 
The kindling of a world of bliss, 
For it was not the light of this. 

WIFFEW. 



Yes, in her eye there lived until the last, 
A strange, unreal light, — a fearful glance, 
Wild, yet most beautiful ; — and o'er her cheek 
Hues of such passing loveliness would stray, 
As seemed not of this earth ; but rather caught 
Like the electric beams that dart across 
The roseate clouds of Summer's softest eve — 
From the high heaven above ! Upon her lip 
Hung ' bland persuasion ' eloquently mute ; 
And, in her very silentness there dwelt 
Music's best half, — expression ! She had borne, 



118 CYTHNA. 

With an untiring spirit, many a grief ; 
And sickness, that had wasted her fine form, 
Had tainted not her soul, for that was pure 
As the last tear which Pity draws from Love. 






LINES, 



WRITTEN IN THE ANGEL OF THE WORLD. 



It is a sunny vision — a deep dream — 
Too full of beauty for the heart to dwell, 
Unpained, upon the dazzling rays that stream 
Around the Bard's creations ! Music's swell 
Voluptuous on the ear ; — the camel-bell, 
Borne softly on the distance ; — banners bright, 
Instinct with gems ; — that angel ere he fell, 
And starry Eblis, — in their mingled might, 
Deluge each weary pulse with too intense delight. 



120 ON THE ANGEL OF THE WORLD. 
II. 

We turn away with dim, delirious sense 
From that so fervid blaze ; and seek repose 
From Eastern splendour and magnificence, 
From gorgeous palaces and clouds of rose, 
Sceptres and thrones, and diamond-crested brows, — 
Pluming our spirits' pinions at the page, 
Where sweet Floranthe warbles forth her woes, 
In strains, of power each turbulent thought to 'suage, 

And bid the passions cease their fierce, wild war, to 
wage ! 

III. 
Surpassing Lyrist ! from thy powerful hand, 
The thunders and keen lightnings of the Muse 
Speed forth in glorious might ! — Thou canst com- 
mand 
The noon-tide burst of poesy ; — yet infuse 
Its twilight calms and bloom-refreshing dew> 
Amid thy deep conceptions ; and canst braid 
Wreaths, rich and bright, with variegated hues, 
As those on an Arabian Heaven displayed, 

Ere day's last rainbow-beams have vanished into shade ! 






AUTUMN. 



Now Winter from her throne is hurling 

The deep-voiced matron of the year ; 
And fitful gusts are wildly whirling 

Her yellow hues on high ; though here, 
In many a fold of beauty streaming, 

It lingers still : — whilst from her eye 
The watery light of love is beaming 

As bright — but, oh, as transiently ; 
Filling the bosom with a sadness, 
Though born of grief— allied to gladness. 



122 AUTUMN. 

II. 

Yes, Autumn's gloom to me is dearer 

Than Spring, or Summer's sunniest smile 
And speaks a language far sincerer 

Than their all cloudless skies. The wile 
Of Hope — life's darkly chequered vision, — 

Its passions, follies, pains, and fears ; 
Its dimness and its quick transition, — 

Methinks, are emblemed in her tears, 
Her bright though fading hues, and even 
The tempests that deform her heaven. 
November, 1819. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 



MUSIC. 



Yes, Music has the key of memory, 

And thoughts and visions buried deep and long, 

Come at the summons of its sweetness nigh. 

CROLY. 



Mysterious keeper of the key 
That opes the gates of Memory, 
Oft, in thy wildest, simplest strain, 
We live o'er years of bliss again ! 

II. 
The sun-bright hopes of early youth, 
Love — in its first deep hour of truth, — 
And dreams of life's delightful morn, 
Are on thy seraph pinions borne ! 



126 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

III. 

To the Enthusiasts heart, thy tone 
Breathes of the lost and lovely one ; 
And calls back moments — brief as dear — 
When last 'twas wafted on his ear. 

IV. 

The Exile listens to the song 
Once heard his native bowers among ; 
And, straightway, on his visions rise 
Home's sunny slopes, and cloudless skies. 

v. 
The Warrior from the strife retired, 
By music's stirring strains inspired, 
Turns him to deeds of glory done, 
To dangers 'scaped — and laurels won. 

VI. 

Enchantress sweet of smiles and tears, 
Spell of the dreams of vanished years, 
Mysterious keeper of the key 
That opes the gates of Memory ! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 127 

VII. 

'Tis thine to bid sad hearts be gay, 
Yet chase the smiles of mirth away ; — 
Joy's sparkling eye in tears to steep, 
Yet bid the mourner cease to weep ! 

VIII. 

To gloom or gladness thou canst suit 
The chords of thy delicious lute ; 
For every heart thou hast a tone, 
Can make its pulses all thine own ! 



128 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 



II. 



TIS EVE ON THE OCEAN. 

WELSH MELODY. — AIR, ' THE ASH GROVE.' 

I. 

Tis eve on the ocean, 

The breeze is in motion, 
And briskly our vessel bounds forth on its way ;- 

The blue sky is o'er us, 

The world is before us, 
Then Ellen, my sweet one, look up and be gay ! 

Why sorrow thus blindly, 

For those who unkindly 
Could launch, and then leave us on life's troubled 

Who so heartlessly scanted 

The little we wanted, 
And denied us the all that we asked — to be free ! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 129 

But we've 'scaped from their trammels,— the word is 

■ Away !' 
Then Ellen, my sweet one, look up and be gay ! 
II. 
On, on we are speeding, 
While, swiftly receding, 
The white cliffs of Albion in distance grow blue ; 
Now that gem of earth's treasures, — 
That scene of past pleasures, — 
The home of our childhood, fades fast from our view. 
Yet still thy heart's swelling, 
My turtle-eyed Ellen ! 
What recks it to us that we leave it behind ? 
Dark ills may betide us, 
But Fate cannot guide us 
Where foes are more bitter, or friends are less kind 
Than we've found them at home ; — but the word is 

'Away !' 
Then Ellen, my sweet one, look up and be gay ! 

K 



130 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

III. 

Now twilight comes 'round us, 

And dimness hath bound us, 
And the light-house looks forth from its surf-beaten 
height, 

Like Hope's gentle beamings, 

Through Sorrow's deep dreamings, 
Or the load-star of Memory to hours of delight. 

Though, self-exiled, we sever 

From England for ever, 
We'll make us a home and a country cfar ; 

And we'll build us a bower 

Where stern Pride hath no power, 
And the rod of Oppression our bliss may not mar. 
We have broken our chain, — and the word is ' Away !' 
Then Ellen, my sweet one, look up and be gay ! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 131 



III. 



WHILE I UPON THY BOSOM LEAN. 



I. 

While I upon thy bosom lean, 

And gaze into thine eyes, 
I turn from sorrows that have been, 

To those which yet may rise : — 
I think on thy untiring truth, 

And faster flow my tears ; 
I mark thy waning rose of youth, 

And cannot hide my fears. 



k.2 



132 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

II. 

Oh ! light have been the pangs we've proved, 

To what may yet remain ; 
We've suffered much — but fondly loved ; — 

Parted — but met again ! 
Still, something speaks a wilder doom 

From which we ne'er may flee ; 
Well — dearest — let the thunder come, 

So that it spares me thee ! 
in. 
Even while I clasp thee to my soul, 

And feel thou'rt wholly mine, 
The bodings I may not control 

My lip breathes out on thine : 
Thy drooping lid — and pallid brow — 

The frequent gathering tear, — 
With voiceless eloquence, avow 

That I have much to fear. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 133 

IV. 

And when to this I add the thought 

Of parting soon again, 
The future, as the past, seems fraught 

With undivided pain ; — 
But no ! I will not dwell upon 

Such dreams while blest with thee ; 
This hour is bright and all our own, 

Whate'er the next may be. 



1&J. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 



IV 



A SEREXADE. 
WELSH MELODY— AIR, ' THE DAW.1 OF DAY. 

T. 

Oh, burst the bonds of slumber, 
Sweet Ellen, awake, arise ! 

Night's shades are furled 

From the breathing world, 
And 'tis morn in the Eastern skies : 
Flowers, fair and without number, 
Unfold their gorgeous dyes ; 

Day speeds apace 

On his glorious race, 
Then open thy star-like eyes ; 
Sweet Ellen, awake, aki^e ! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 135 

II. 

Rich milk-white clouds are sailing 
Like ships upon stormless seas ; 

The heavens grow bright 

With liquid light, 
And fragrance loads the breeze. 
Morn's melodies prevailing, 

Sweep through the trembling trees, 

The lark's in the sky, 

And the linnet on high, 
And wilt thou be less blithe than these ? 
Sweet Ellen, awake, arise ! 

IIT. 

The dew-bent rose is baring- 
Its breast to the golden sun ; 
New splendours shower 
On temple and tower, 
And the stir of day's begun, 
We'll do a deed of daring 



136 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

Ere Phoebus' race be run ; 
Our bark's below, 
And the breezes blow, 
And our goal will soon be won : — 
Sweet Ellen- , awake, arise ! 

IV. 

What recks it to hearts like ours, 
Where we resolve to flee ? 
Not far we'll roam 
For a blissful home, 
Since Paradise dwells with thee ! 
We'll steer for Pleasure's bowers, 
(With Hope) through Life's dark sea 
And Love shall guide 
Us through the tide, 
\nd our trusty pilot be. 
Sweet Ellen, awake, arise ! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 137 



SACRED MELODY. 



THERE IS A THOUGHT. 



I. 

There is a thought can lift the soul 

Above the dull cold sphere that bounds it, — 

A star, that sheds its mild control 

Brightest when Grief's dark cloud surrounds it,— 

And pours a soft, pervading ray 

Life's ills may never chase away ! 



138 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

II. 

When earthly joys have left the breast, 

And even the last fond hope it cherished 
Of mortal bliss — too like the rest — 

Beneath Woe's withering touch hath perished, 
With fadeless lustre streams that light ; 
A halo on the brow of night ! 

III. 
And bitter were our sojourn here 

In this dark wilderness of sorrow, 
Did not that rainbow-beam appear, 

The herald of a brighter morrow ; 
A merciful beacon from on high 
To guide us to Eternity ! 

1815. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 139 



VI. 



THE HOME OF TALIESS1N. 



The remains (consisting of little more than the foundation-stones) 
of the dwelling of the celebrated Welsh bard Taliessin, are still pointed 
out in a romantic gorge of the mountains near Llannvyst, at no great 
distance from the Druid waves of Llynn Geirionedd. The view wmcn 
is commanded from this spot is one of the most picturesque that can be 
conceived 5 and the associations connected with it, render it, of course, 
still more interesting. 



I. 
I stood on the spot where the famed Taliessin, 
That ' Prince of the Bards/ had his dwelling of old 



140 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

Dark thoughts on my memory, unbidden, were 
pressing, 
Of hopes wildly thwarted, and friendships grown 
cold ! 

II. 
Eve was yielding to twilight ; yet still richly glowing, 

The deep skies reflected the sun that had fled ; 
And below me, in musical murmurs, were flowing 
The bright purple waters of Llynn Geirionedd. 
in. 
I looked on the mighty hills gathered around it, — 

That train of dark giants, with cloud-girded brows ; 
And I thought of the minstrel whose fame had so 
crowned it, 
As 1 gazed on their summits of shadows and snows. 

IV. 

I turned to the wreck that remained of his dwelling, — 
The ruin that time and the tempest had spared ; 

But a few scattered stones, and a mound rudely 
swelling, 
Were all that arose there to claim a regard. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 141 

V. 

I called on his name who had roused from her slumbers 

Sweet Echo, how oft, in her green bosomed lair ; 
I asked, where, and oh where, breathes he now his 
wild numbers ? 
And the mountains around answered, 'where, and 
oh where ? ' 

VT. 

Years have fleeted since then ; — but in sickness and 
sadness, 
As I muse on the hopes that once promised so fair, 
I ask, where, and oh where, are those visions of 
gladness ? 
And my bosom's deep cell echoes, ■ where, and oh 
where ? ' 

1819. 



142 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 



VII. 



WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? 



I. 

When shall we meet again, — 

Meet ne'er to sever ? 
When will Peace wreathe her chain 

Round us for ever ? 
When will our hearts repose, 
Safe from each blast that blows, 
In this dark vale of woes ? 

Never, — no, never ! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 143 

II. 

Pride's unrelenting hand 

Soon will divide us, 
Moments like these be banned, 

Trysting denied us. 
Force may our steps compel, 
Hearts will not say farewell, 
Can Power affection quell ? 

Never, — no, never ! 

ill. 

By the thrice hallowed past, 

Love's tenderest token ; — 
By bliss, too sweet to last, 

Faith, yet unbroken ; — 
By all we're doomed to bear ; — 
By this sad kiss and tear ; — 
I will forget thee, dear, 

Never, — no, never ! 



144 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 



IV. 



If thou'rt as true to me, 

Fond and firm hearted, 
Hate's dull desires will be 
Half of them thwarted. 
When shall we meet again ? — 
When shall we meet again ? — 
In this wide world of pain 
Never, — no, never ! 

v. 

But where no storms can chill, 

False friends deceive us ; 
Where with protracted thrill 

Hope cannot grieve us ; 
There with the pure of heart, 
Safe from Fate's venomed dart, 
There we may meet to part 
Never, — no, never ! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 146 



VIII. 



COME, LET US BANISH SORROW. 



WF.LSH MELODY.— AIR, THE ' MINSTRELSY OF CHIRK CASTLE,' 



Come, let us banish sorrow, 
Nor think about to-morrow ! 
This hour so bright, 
May well requite 
Our hearts for the past ; 
And as for future sadness, 
Why should we mar our gladness, 

L 



146 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

With boding fears, 
With sighs and tears, 
Lest bliss should not last ? 
What though Fortune frown on us, or friends prove 

unkind, 
We can never be poor, love, with wealth of the mind ; 
We can never be lonely — though all should depart, 
Whilst we live in the pulse-peopled world of the heart. 
II. 
What can there be to grieve thee ? 
Thou know'st I'll ne'er deceive thee ; 
Am I not thine ? 
Then why repine ? 
Say, what wouldst thou more ? 
Can fate have power to harm thee ? 
Can life's dark ills alarm thee ? 
Am I not near 
To shield thee, dear ? 
Say, what wouldst thou more ? 



STANZAS FOR MUSTC. 147 

Then a truce to all gloom, we'll be cheerful and gay, 
Nor welcome the griefs that are yet on their way ; 
Let them come, at their leisure, we'll smile while we 

may, 
And, in spite of to-morrow, be happy to-day ! 



148 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 



IX. 



AND DOST THOU LOVE THE LYRE. 



I. 

And dost thou love the Lyre, 
Those strains the Nine inspire ? 

Ah ! beware the spell, 

Some have proved too well, 
Nor follow a wandering fire, Mary ! 

II. 
For genius is only a dream, 
An ignis fatuus gleam, 

That just lends its light ; 

But when sorrow's night 
Is deepest — withdraws its beam, Mary ! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 149 

III. 

Tis a passionate sense refined, 
That spells the enthusiast's mind ; 

That bids him cope 

With life's storms, and hope 
For a haven he never may find, Mary ! 

IV. 

As the hues of the mimic bow, 
Arching the cataract's brow, 

Though they gaily shine, — 

And seem half divine, 
Are but types of the chaos below, Mary ! 

v. 
So the glittering tints that rest, 
On Genius' star-bright crest, 

May lovelily glow, 

While despair and woe 
Hold their strife in his lonely breast, Marv ! 



150 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

VI. 

Some have envied the Minstrel's art, 
Unknowing his oft-felt smart ; 

But this never might be, 

Could they once but see 
A minstrel's inmost heart, Man ! 

VII. 

It hath fibres so finely wrought, 

And depths with such feelings fraught, 

That a word may break, 

Or to melody wake 
Each chord in that Lyre of thought, Mary ! 

vin. 
Even when Pleasure her fingers flings 
O'er its most attenuate strings, 

In the passionate swells 

Which her touch compels, 
It oft wails while to gladness it rings, Mary ! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 151 

IX. 

But when Sorrow's ruthless hand 
Doth its tremulous chords command, 

They break in her clasp, 

For so rude a grasp 
They never were formed to withstand, Mary ! 

x. 
Then do not love the Lyre, 
Those strains the Nine inspire, 

But beware the spell, 

Some have proved too well, 
Nor follow a wandering: fire, Marv ! 



152 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 



MY RACE IS ALMOST RUN. 
I. 

My race is almost run, my days are nearly done, 

Yet my heart still is buoyant, my spirits are light, — 
It is but as the blaze of a dying taper's rays, 

Life's last >ivid flash ere it fades into night ! 
II. 
In my day-spring of youth, with a bosom full of truth, 

And feelings unwarped or unwithered by wrong ; 
With every sail unfurled, o'er the waves of the world 

My bark of existence sped gaily along, 
m. 
My pilot was Hope, and I fancied I could cope, 

If guided by him, with that storm-troubled sea; 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 153 

Till dashed on Passion's rock, and shattered by the 
shock, 
I soon found how unskilful a helmsman was he. 

IV. 

But years have flitted past, and tried in many a blast, 

We both have grown wiser and steadier than of yore ; 
The rack hath o'er us rolled, and now cheerily we hold 

For a haven from whence we shall wander no more, 
v. 
My days are well nigh done, my goal will soon be won, 

And repose from the buffets of Fortune be mine ; 
Where Hate, however fierce, or Sorrow may not pierce, 

To bid my cold bosom a moment repine. 

VI. 

O Death ! I can brook on thine awful front to look, 
And can turn to thee now with a heart void of gloom ; 

To him whom Time can bring no balsam on its wing, 
There sure must be healing and rest in the tomb. 



154 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 



XI. 



YEB, METHINKS THAT I COULD. 
I. 

Yes, methinks that I could without weeping resign 
Both thy beautiful eyes, though so fondly they 
languish ; 
And thy lips, though they often have murmured to mine 
The soft tones of delight, I could lose — without 
anguish '. 

ii. 
To be brief; thou hast held so ungentle a sway 
O'er the heart that was given by Love to thy 
keeping, 
That at length from thy chains it hath stolen away, 
And methinks I might learn — to lose all without 
weeping ! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 155 



XII. 



RETOUCH, SWEET FRIEND— RETOUCH THE LUTE, 



Retouch, sweet Friend — retouch the Lute, 

Its tones may turn thy thoughts on me ; 
Let not its chords be longer mute ; 

Remember, 'twas my gift to thee ! 
Wake then its wildest, sweetest strain, 
And bid the past be ours again ! 

IE. 
Oh might it yield an answering sound 

To all my wishes, hopes, and fears ; 
Nor e'er be mute or tuneless found 

Till I forget thy parting tears ; 
Then would thy life, beloved, be 
One round of tenderest minstrelsy ? 



156 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 



XIII. 



THE PAINS OF MEMORY. 



I. 

When Joy its fairest flowers hath shed, 
And even Hope's blossoms too are dead, 
Though Memory through the cloud of woe 
A momentary gleam may throw ; 

ii. 
Tis but an ignis fatuus light, — 
A fleeting vision, frail as bright, — 
That mocks awhile the mourner's sight, 
To leave his soul in tenfold ni^ht ! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 157 



XIV. 



THE SOUL THA.T WAS SHROUDED. 



I. 

The soul that was shrouded in sorrow's dark night 
A peace-promising beam woke to gladness and light ; 
And the lute, that so long lorn and tuneless had hung, 
Once more with the wild notes of melody rung ! 

ir. 
Ah ! why did that beam only shine to beguile \ 
Ah ! why did it teach the fond mourner to smile ? 
Why faithlessly grant him a seeming reprieve, 
Then leave him in sadness still deeper to grieve ? 



]58 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

III. 

The light is gone by — and the music is o'er, 
And the feelings so lovely — are lovely no more ; 
That soul, once again, its dark vigils is keeping, 
And the Lute 'neath the cold chain of Silence is 
sleeping ! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 159 



XV. 



WHAT NEED OF YEARS— LONG YEARS TO PROVE? 



I. 

What need of years, long years to prove 
The sense of Friendship or of Love ? 
What need of years to firmly bind 
The social compact of the mind ? 

II. 
In youthful hearts of kindred mould, 
Not slowly feeling's flowers unfold ; 
But oft — though 'neath a sky a gloom — 
They burst to instantaneous bloom ! 



160 STANZAS FOR MUSIC, 



XVI. 



CONSOLATION". 



It is but lifeless perishable stuff 
That moulders in the grave. 

SOCTHEY. 



Look up, look up, and weep not so, thy darling is not 

dead, 
His sinless soul is cleaving now yon sky's empurpled 

bed; 
His spirit drinks new life and light 'mid bowers of 

endless bloom ; 
It is but perishable stuff that moulders in the tomb. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 161 

Then hush, oh ! hush the swelling sigh, and dry the 

idle tear ! 
Look out upon yon glorious Heaven, and joy that he 

is there ! 

ii. 

Already hath he gained the goal, and tasted of the 

bliss, 
The peace that God's pervading love prepares for 

souls like his ; 
He hovers round the Throne of thrones on light and 

filmy wings, 
The Ariel of attendant sprites upon the King of 

kings ! 
Then calm thy sorrow-stricken heart, and smile away 

despair ; 
Think of the home thy child hath won, and joy that 

he is there ! 



T»I 



162 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

III. 

When summer evening's golden hues are burning in 

the sky, 
And odorous gales from balmy bowers are breathing 

softly by ; 
When earth is bright with sunset's beams, and flowers 

are blushing near, 
And grief, all chastened and subdued, is gathering to 

a tear ; 
How sweet 'twill be, at such an hour, and 'mid a scene 

so fair, 
To lift thy streaming eyes to Heaven, and think that 

he is there ! 

IV. 

And when that fatal hour arives, the hour that all must 

brave, 
Ere thy full ear of life be reaped and garnered in the 

grave ; 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 163 

Whilst deeply musing on the fate our prayers may not 

defer, 
What ardent longings after bliss each failing pulse 

will stir ; 
How sweet will be the glance to Heaven — the Heaven 

thou soon may'st share !- 
The memory of thy buried babe — the hope to meet 

him there ! 



SONNETS. 



SONNETS. 



I. 

THE FIRST-BORN. 

Never did music sink into my soul 

So ' silver sweet,' as when thy first weak wail 

On my 'rapt ear in doubtful murmurs stole, 

Thou child of love and promise! — What a tale 

Of hopes and fears, of gladness and of gloom, 

Hung on that slender filament of sound ! 

Life's guileless pleasures, and its griefs profound, 

Seemed mingling in thy horoscope of doom. 

Thy bark is launched, and lifted is thy sail 

Upon the weltering billows of the world ; 

But oh ! may winds far gentler than have hurled 

My struggling vessel on, for thee prevail : 

Or, if thy voyage must be rough, — may'st thou 

Soon 'scape the storm, and be — as blest as I am now ' 



168 SONNETS. 



II. 



WRITTEN AT CLARENS 



Stranger ! if from the crowded walks of life 
Thou lov'st to stray, and woo fair Solitude 
Amid her woodland haunts ; — silent to brood, 
(Apart from worldly vanities, and strife,) 
1 O'er nature's charms, and see her stores unrolled,' 
Let this sweet spot thy roving steps arrest. 
Say, dwells the canker care within thy breast ? 
Lake Leman, murmuring o'er its sands of gold, 
Shall soothe thee with soft music ; — and thine eye, 
Although unused to glisten with delight, — 
Survey the scene here opening on thy sight, 
With 'raptured gaze. — Oh ! if beneath the sky, 
Stranger ! to mortal man such seat be given. 
What may he hope, whose eye is fixed on Hea\en ! 



SONNETS. 169 



III. 



Go, join the mincing measures of the crowd, 

And be that abject thing which men call wise, 

In the World's school of wisdom ! — I despise 

Thy proffered aid ! — Go ! Thou may'st court the proud, 

With ready smile, and ever bended knee ; 

But I do scorn to owe a debt to thee 

My soul could not repay. — There was a tie 

(Would it existed now !) which might have kept 

Peace, and good will between us : — I have wept, 

With tears of wild and breathless agony, 

That it should pass away ; — and sought to quell 

The angry thoughts that in my breast would swell, 

When dwelling on my injuries : — but yet — 

Though I forgive, — I never can forget ! 



70 SONNETS. 



IV. 



TO SENSIBILITY. 



Though for thy.sake I am crost, 
Though my best hopes I have lost, 
And I knew thou'dst make my trouble 
Ten times more than ten times double, 
I should love and keep thee too, 
Spite of all the world could do. 

wither. 



I always loved thee, Sensibility ! 

And though thou hast but served to work me woe, 

Do love thee still ! — Nurtured beneath thine eye, 

1 For me the meanest, simplest flowers that blow,' 

Can raise up thoughts that lie too deep for tears. 

Not all the joys the multitude can know, 

Should e'er seduce my bosom to forego 

Thy sacred feelings ! — Yet from earliest years, 



SONNETS. 171 

Like that frail plant whose shrinking leaves betray 

The careless pressure of an idle hand, 

My heart, unschooled in guile, could ne'er command 

Its hectics of the moment : — let thy ray, 

Then, thou sweet source of sorrow and delight, 

Beam on thy votary's soul with more attempered light. 



172 SONNETS. 



V. 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS. 

Vain was the frown of pride to disunite 
The hearts that love and sentiment had joined ; 
Vainly it urged its stern, unyielding right 
To break the spell-wrought fetters of the mind : — 
They would not be undone, for thy soft soul 
Scorned to be subject to such base control. 
Oh ! hadst thou been a dowerless village maid, 
And rich in nought beside thy native charms, 
I might have dared to woo thee to my arms, 
Thou not unwilling ; — in some peaceful shade 
We might have lived in blissful solitude, 
Scorning, if scorned by Fortune : — Fate's decree 
Hath fixed it otherwise ; dark cares intrude ; 
But what are all my woes to that of losing thee ! 



SONNETS. 173 



VI. 



WRITTEN IN A. CHURCH-YARD. 

This is a spot to musing grief how dear ! 

Where, unobserved, she may pour forth her plaint, — 

Ponder on pleasures past without restraint — 

And breathe the sigh — ■ fools should not overhear.' 

Much do I love, alone, to linger here, 

What time the glow of summer's evening beam 

Brightens the landscape round, and Mersey's stream 

Sleeps in the mellow light. — Sometimes a tear 

Of wild regret will steal into mine eye, 

As, musing 'mid these mansions of the dead, 

The sweet remembrances of years gone by— 

Of joys departed — hopes for ever fled — 

Come crowding on my mind ; nor would I stem, 

For all the wealth of worlds, that woe's luxuriant gem ! 



174 SONNETS. 



VII. 



WRITTEN AT SEA. 

Yes, Desolation, on her viewless wing, 
Even now, perhaps, is speeding with the blast 
In deathful haste ; — with angry visiting, 
The surges sweep around us, and the mast, 
Bereft of sail, bends like a fragile reed 
Submissive to the storm : — but for yon light* 
I had begun to deem this dreary night, 
For us, would have no morn. In Greatest need, 
When through life's sea man's erring bark' is driven, 
Thus doth the beacon Hope with friendly gleam 
Speak peace unto his soul ; and though its beam 
Bring not immediate aid, it can create 
Courage, to bear the bufferings of Fate 
With patience, till he reach the wished-for port of 
Heaven ! 

* Dungeness light-house. 



SONNETS. 175 



VIII. 

ON A DOMESTIC CALAMITY 

Now is all love shut from me ; — I am left, 
Like the scathed pine upon the mountain's brow, 
Withered and branchless. — The last verdant bough 
That, 'mid the blight, put forth its freshening hues, 
Hath felt the lightning's wrath ; — my all is reft, 
And I must wend me through life's vale of woe 
In solitude and tears : — well, be it so ! — 
Yet these sweet thoughts shall soothe me, and diffuse 
A healing balm upon my suffering soul : — 
That I have been most happy, though so brief 
Were my young days of gladness — that my grief 
Was not of mine own planting, but the sole 
Endowment of misfortune ; — and that bliss 
May bloom, from sorrow's seeds, in brighter realms 
than this. 



17f» SONNETS. 



IX. 



TO SUSPENSE 



Ill-boding Fiend ! How oft thy fiery breath 
Hath stirred the storm of passion in my soul, 
Until the waves of thought spurned all control, 
And swelled to a fierce Phlegethon ! — Beneath 
The wide expanse of yonder boundless sky, 
What hath the power to rack the feeling heart 
Like thy keen-torturing vengeance ? Where the smart, 
Can match the brain-bewildering agony 
Thy presence doth create ? — My lot, through life, 
Demon of dark uncertainty ! hath been 
To have sweet feelings maddened into strife 
By thy bliss-blighting influence ; — and each scene 
Of beauty, shadowed by thy wing accursed ! — 
When shall I 'scape thy fangs ? My heart — be still — 
or burst ! 



MIRZALA. 



FROM THE ARABIC. 



Love ! oh, young Love ! 
Why hast thou not security 1 Thou art 
Like a bright river, on whose course the weeds 
Are thick and heavy ; briars are on its banks, 
And jagged stones and rocks are 'mid its waves. 
Conscious of its own beauty, it will rush 
Over its many obstacles, and pant 
For some green valley as its quiet home. 
Alas ! either it rushes with a desperate leap 
Over its barriers, foaming passionate, 
But prisoned still ; or winding languidly, 
Becomes dark like Oblivion ; or else wastes 
Itself away.— This is Love's history ! 



I. 

She was beautiful as the lily-bosomed Houri that 
gladden the visions of the Poet, when, soothed to 

N 



178 MIRZALA. 

dreams of pleasantness and peace, the downy pinions 
of Sleep wave over his turbulent soul ! 
it. 

She was more graceful than the Antelope ; and her 
skin was fairer than the plumage of the billow-stem- 
ming bird of Franguestan. 

in. 

Her golden ringlets streamed over her snowy and 
transparent shoulders, like the rich rays of the noon- 
day sun upon a rock of the purest alabaster. 

IV. 

Her eyes were as two imaged stars peering from 
the blue depths of untroubled waters ; and the vivid 
vermilion of her cheek was as the odour-breathing 
blossom of the peach. 

v. 

In sorrow, — ay, and even in joy, — the heaving of 
her bosom was like the tremulous motion of the Lake 
of Pearls, when the tempest that deformed it hath 
passed by. But for the heart that dwelt therein, — 



MIRZALA. 179 

oh, its chords were ever musical, whether swept by 
the ruffian hand of Grief, or touched by the delicate 
fingers of Delight ! 

VI. 

As the mysterious pebbles of Kathay yield their 
harmonious murmurs, whether wrought upon by the 
storm-blast or zephyr, — so the soul of Mirzala 
always responded in melody. 

VII. 

The Anemone is a lovely flower ; but fragile and 
perishing as the forms that people the day-dreams of 
Fancy : the wind wringeth it from the stem, and 
quickly whirleth it on high. Even such was the 
daughter of Ben Azra, and so fared it with the 
maiden. 

VIII. 

There has been mourning in the Valley of Camels ; 
—Desolation dwelleth in the Palace of the Emir ; the 
lute and the ziraleet are silent in his halls; the dance 
and the revel have ceased ; — the echoes of Israfil 
are no more ; but hark to the wul-wulleh of Despair ! 

N 2 



180 MIRZALA. 

IX. 

There is blood on the threshold of Ben Azra, — 
even the blood of the guiltless Abdallah ; — for the 
Prophet hath not forbidden us to love, — and this was 
the sum of his offending. The ataghan was sheathed 
in his heart ; — his turban-stone is whitening on the 
hill! 

x. 

O thou pervading Power of Love ! Thou art to some, 
sweet as the bubbling fountain of freshness to the 
burning brow of the desert-worn traveller ; but to 
others, terrible as the fiery pestilence, or the breath 
of the unmerciful Simoom ! 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Page 1. 

THE PROFESSION. 

In the former editions of this volume I gave, as an illustration of the 
Profession, an extract from the late Mrs. Radcliffe's admirable romance, 
" The Italian." Since then, however, I have met with an interesting 
description of the Profession of a Nun in Bell's " Observations on Italy," 
which I am gratified to observe coincides very nearly with my own little 
sketch on the same subject. 

" The convent, in which we beheld this ceremony, belonged to an 
austere order, styled " Lume Iacra," having several regulations, enforc- 
ing silence and contemplation. 

" One of their symbols resembles the ancient customs of the Vestal 
Virgins; like them, they are enjoined to watch continually over the sa- 
cred lamp, burning for ever. The costume of this community differs 
essentially from that usually worn, and is singularly beautiful and pic- 
turesque ; but, while it pleases the eye, it covers an ascetic severity, 
their waist being grasped, under the garment, by an iron girdle, which 
is never loosened. 

■ It appeared that the fortunes of the fair being who was this day to 
take the veil, had been marked by events so full of sorrow, that her 



182 NOTES. 

story, which was told in whispers by those assembled, was not listened 
to without the deepest emotion. Circumstances of the most affecting 
nature had driven her to seek shelter in a sanctuary, where the afflicted 
may weep in silence, and where, if sorrow is not assuaged, its tears are 
hidden. 

" All awaited the moment of her entrance with anxious impatience ; 
and on her appearance every eye was directed towards her with an 
expression of the deepest interest. Splendidly adorned, as is customary 
on these occasions, and attended by a female friend of high rank, she 
slowly advanced to the seat assigned her near the altar. Her fine form 
rose above the middle stature, a gentle bend marked her contour, but 
it seemed as the yielding of a fading flower; her deep blue eyes, which 
were occasionally in pious awe raised to Heaven, and her long dark 
eye-lashes, gave life to a beautiful countenance, on which resignation 
seemed portrayed. The places allotted to us as being strangers, whom 
the Italians never fail to distinguish by the most courteous manners, were 
such as not only to enable us to view the whole ceremony, but to con- 
template the features and expression of this interesting being. 

" She was the only child of doating parents ; but while their afflicted 
spirit found vent in the tears which coursed over cheeks chilled by 
sorrow, they yet beheld their treasure about to be for ever separated 
from them, with that resignation which piety inspires, while yielding to 
a sacrifice made to Heaven. The ceremony now began, the priest pro- 
nounced a discourse, and the other observances proceeded in the usual 
track. 

" At length the solemn moment approached which was to bind her 
vows to Heaven. She arose and stood a few moments before the altar , 
when suddenly, yet with noiseless action, she sank extended on the 
marble floor, and instantly the long black pall was thrown over her. 
Every heart seemed to shudder, and a momentary pause ensued ; when 
the deep silence was broken by the low tones of the organ, accompa- 
nied by soft female voices singing the service of the dead (the requiem). 
The sound gently swelled in the air, and as the harmonious volume 



NOTES. 183 

became more powerful, the deep church bell at intervals sounded with 
a loud clamour, exciting a mixed feeling of agitation and grandeur. 

" Tears were the silent expression of the emotion which thrilled 
through every heart, This solemn music continued long, and still fell 
mournfully on the ear; and yet seraphic as in softened tones, and as it 
were receding in the distance, it gently sank into silence. The young 
novice was then raised, and advancing towards the priest, she bent 
down, kneeling at his feet, while he cut a lock off her hair, as a type of 
the ceremony which was to deprive her of this, to her no longer valued, 
ornament. Her attendant then despoiled her of the rich jewels with 
which she was adorned ; her splendid upper vesture was thrown off, 
and replaced by a monastic garment ; her long tresses bound up, her 
temples covered with fair linen, the white crown, emblem of innocence, 
fixed on her head, and the crucifix placed in her hands, 

" Then kneeling low once more before the altar, she uttered her last 
vow to Heaven ; at which moment the organ and choristers burst forth 
in loud shouts of triumph, and in the same instant the cannon from St. 
Angelo gave notice that her solemn vows were registered. 

" The ceremony finished, she arose, and, attended in procession, pro- 
ceeded towards a wide iron gate, dividing the church from the monas- 
tery, -which, opening wide, displayed a small chapel beautifully illu- 
minated ; a thousand lights shed a brilliant lustre, whose lengthened 
gleams seemed sinking into darkness, as they shot through the long 
prospective of the distant aisle. In the foreground, in a blazing focus 
of light, stood an altar, from which, in a divided line, the nuns of the 
community were seen, each holding a large burning wax taper. They 
seemed to be disposed in order of seniority, and the two youngest were 
still adorned with the white crown, as being in the first week of their 
noviciate. 

" Both seemed in early youth, and their cheeks, yet unpaled by monas- 
tic vigils, bloomed with a brighter tint, while their eyes sparkled, and a 
smile seemed struggling with the solemnity of the moment, in expression 



184 NOTES. 

of their innocent delight in beholding the approach of her who had that 
day offered up her vows, and become one of the community. 

" The others stood in succession, with looks more subdued, pale, mild, 
collected, the head gently bending towards the earth in contemplation. 
The procession stopped at the threshold of the church, when the young 
nun was received and embraced by the Lady Abbess, who, leading 
her onwards, was followed in procession by the nuns, each bearing her 
lighted torch." 

Note 2. Page 33. Line 7. 
In his eye 
His inmost soul is glassed. 

Yon cliff that glasses 
Its rugged forehead in the neighbouring lake. 
Massinger. 

Note 3. Page 29. Line 7. 
The bright 
And searching glance of her Ithuriel eye. 
See the Fourth Book of Paradise Lost for the attributes of the Angel 
Ithuriel. 

Note 4. Page 83. Line 1. 
In the verses on the death of my nephew, W. P. Watts, I had a faint 
recollection that I was indebted to some one for the line, 

I think of all thy winning ways, 
or at least part of it, and accordingly attached inverted commas to it. 
An intelligent friend has suggested the source in Leigh Hunt's beautiful 
address to his child in sickness. 

I sit me down and think, 
Of all thy winning ways, 

And almost wish with sudden shrink 
That 1 had less to praise. 



NOTES. 185 

Note 5. Page 131. Line 1. 
TV/rile I upon thy bosom lean. 
This line is taken verbatim from an old Scotch song, which I have 
somewhere heard or seen. For the last two lines of the same poem, 

This hour is bright and all our own, 
"Whate'er the next may be. 

1 am also indebted to Mickle's exquisite song, ' There is no luck about 
the House.' 

The present moment is our ain, 
The next — who ever saw ! 

Note 6. Page 145. Line 1. 
Come, let us banish sorrow. 
This song, and those at pages 148 and 152. were written for Mr. Power's 
Welsh Melodies. 

Note 7. Page 154. Line 1. 

Yes, methinks that I could without weeping resign. 

These lines are imitated from a well-known Epigram of Martial. 

Note 8. Page 158. Line 4. 
And the lute y neath the cold chain of Silence is sleeping. 
See Moore's Farewell to his Harp. 

The cold chain of silence has hung o'er thee long. 
Which he refers in a note to an old Irish ballad. 

FINIS. 



REVIEWERS' OPINIONS, 



Mr. Watts writes with much elegance and simplicity, and we like his com- 
positions for their entire freedom from exaggeration. He writes sincerely, 
and his sincerity has been felt ; for we scarcely remember any instance of so 
unostentatious a writer as he is, and, without any boast of originality, acquir- 
ing so much popular favour in so short a time.— BLACKWOOD'S MAG. Jan. 
1825. 

This little volume contains not a few of the sweetest and brightest gems of 
genuine poetry. Mr. Watts is one of the comparatively small number of 
poets or writers who have escaped the infection of the prevailing taste for 
exaggeration and elaborate eccentricity, and whose study it is to reflect back 
to the mind of the reader, images of simple nature and unsophisticated senti- 
ment. Hence it is that his compositions are distinguished by a delicate sim- 
plicity, a winning tenderness, and a purity of sentiment, as rare as they are 
delightful. In a word, he has succeeded in conveying to the minds of his 
readers the sentiments and feelings which infiueuced his own, and in breathing 
over his pages a spirit of deep sympathy with the beauties of nature, and the 
destinies of maD, which can hardly fail to render this little volume extremely 
interesting to almost every class of readers, and to secure to its author a per- 
manent rank among the best poets of the day.— Constable's Edinburgh 
Mag. Oct. 1823. 

For tenderness, true feeling, and poetical taste, few of our living hards ad- 
vance claims to regard superior to those unfolded in this small and modest 
volume.— LIT. Gaz. Oct. 3, 1823. 

The additional pieces are worthy of the beautiful and feeling compositions 
with which they have been associated. — Lit. Gaz. July, 1824. 

It is impossible for any one to read these poems without being deeply struck 
with their extreme beauty. They are full of touching appeals to our sympa- 
thies, and we scarcely know any living poet who has been more successful in 
his expression of the gentler affections.— Lit. Museum, Oct. 11, 1822. 



188 



The chief merit of Mr. Watts's poetry lies in pathos and tenderness; in 
describing some of the most exquisite sensibilities of our nature, in impressive 
colouring, combined with that genuine simplicity which never fails to please, 
and which is, at the same time, one of the best tests by which a true poet may 
be distinguished.— METROP. Lit. Jocr. Oct. 1824. 

Mr. Watts frequently reminds his readers of Moore, or Barry Cornwall. 
There is, however, more of heart, though less of brilliancy, in his lyrical poems 
than in those of the former ; whilst he displays more purity of taste and sen- 
timent than the latter. We could not pass over a volume of such modest 
pretensions, displaying, at the same time, so much genuine poetical feeling, 
sensibility, and refinement.— ECLECTIC REV. Jan. 1824. 

We perused these poems on their first appearance, and we have now re- 
perused them with no diminution of the pleasure we experienced at first meet- 
ing with them. They display throughout a true poetical vein. Some of the 
minor pieces are eminently pleasing. — New Mon. Mag. Nov. 1823. 

It is not on the descriptive merits of Mr. Watts, even in his most successful 
attempts, beautiful as they undoubtedly are, that we feel disposed to bestow 
our chief praise. This we would reserve for the pathetic pieces, which breathe 
the very soul of feeling and tenderness, in language which no contemporary 
poet, with the exception of Barry Cornwall, could equal. — Mo-N Mag. Nov. 
1823. 

It would be a waste of time to discuss Mr. Watts's capabilities as a poet. 
His volume has attracted the favourable notice of almost every reviewer. In 
these times, it is certainly no small praise, that his poems do not contain a 
single syllable militating agaiust religion or morality. — Gent. Mag. July, 
1824. 

Mr. Watts' s judgment has led him to disdain the loose and capricious metre 
of the modern school of poetry. We never read one of his stanzas without 
feeling that he draws his inspiration from the heart, and his style from the 
best models of our language. The " Death of the First-born " we look upon 
as one of the most exquisite poems in the English language.— Mc-N. Ret. 
Dec. 1820. 

In smoothness of versification, felicity of imagery, and vigour of description, 
Mr. Watts may rank with some of the most respectable poets of the day. 
There is scarcely one of his poems that does not contain some beauties.— LIT 
Chron. Oct. 25. 1823. 



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